i sleep in crumbs,
my bed is a soft dirt floor.
i pretend to be dead when i hear a knock on the door.

light hurts my eyes, but i refuse to wear sunglasses
because they bring up the oh so ~painful~ memory of
that time at fourteen when i was too awkward and too quiet and too stuttery when buying a pair. like an alien afraid of blowing their cover.

i absorb water from microwaved meals.

my mind says lazy, my doctor says clinical depression,
but my heart is the one who knows the truth.

...

wait- what? it is laziness? ... oh.
oh. well. i suppose i can't argue with the heart.