I had three cups of coffee for breakfast.
I slept in a t-shirt two sizes too big,
and I took one too many Adderall (i think).
I sat at the table with the same book
I opened a few months ago,
reading the same few pages from yesterday,
hoping that today would be the day
it all made sense (much like you).
I started to wash the dishes,
but I only got a quarter
of the way done
before I ran out of soap,
much like my effort, or lack thereof.
On these days, my anxiety
is less of an adjective
and more like a state of being.
Everything has become exhausting,
waking up, going to sleep.
Yet, I do it all so well, and nothing
seems to satisfy the insatiable
hunger of the constant chatter
in the back of my head
that screams, “Go”
leave this place with dishes
in the sink, and half-filled
coffee cups behind
and never return.

I [think] I took one too many Adderall.