is like a week without a bath. I feel
grungy and seedy. My hair is stuck
in mats. My smile is upside down. I never
laugh. My eyelashes stick together from

the drowning of my tears. My shadow
doesn’t follow me. I’m not that great
company. I’m melancholy as a storm cloud
that hangs around after the rain. The knot

in my stomach’s tied so tight it feels
like a chain pulling me from the inside, and
ripping me apart. My heart’s a black
box with no output. It lies outside my

body. And my brain is a can worms that
the hungriest fish would turn down. This is
what I call destitute –
a week without you.