nothing changes even if I sleep
three, four hours later than intended
when I wake up, the same ceiling—
the same feeling arises in my head
like the afternoon sun that's become
a foreign presence to my world

I lay in bed for several more minutes
and I forget everything that makes
me feel so worthless and strange

but even if I rise again and see my
reflection, I avert my gaze in shame
of both my appearance and form

disheveled and unbecoming I am
it makes me sick to my stomach to
see the result of my own negligence

it doesn't matter if I rinse my face of
dirt from yesterday or the day before
the same mistakes will stain me
the same empty shell will greet me
the same issues of several years ago
now a disintegration of the present

I should have been born
with a better mind,
a better spirit—
a human being
a better way of living
instead of breaking away in fear
from the owners of each grimace

maybe if I had the humor to
laugh at my own instability
but I'm a child without regulation
a child without connection
even if I pull my hair,
claw at my skin,
spill everything
to lay my soul bare
I'm far too difficult to know
and only a growing burden

with time, everything eats away
the termites burrowing, hollowing
nothing from before is left of me
just an endless feeling of regret and
desire for a final march towards...

—Or maybe I shouldn't
have been born at all.