yesterday I woke up sad and talkative. I talked till all my words dwindled. I talked till my throat gave in.
I went home with my head face down on my lap. My wrists were faulty and gelatinous. Seven sorry hours, then crawl to claim space I simply forgot was mine. I sprawled shyly, stiffly. I had my dinner vertically and choked on my water vertically. My dim lighting all of a sudden felt too bright, so I darkened it entirely, locked the doors, and chose to sleep. When I rubbed my face down on my pillow, I didn't recognize the smell. I ran my hands by habit and didn't recognize the lumps under my pillow. Crumbs crawled all over me. My feet were clammy. With my stomach flat down, I recalled a terribly ill memory. 'This is my bed,' I thought. This is my bed, but my mind associated it rudely.
I slept early and semi-deeply. I didn't dream anything bothersome. But I woke up today morose and still rudely associated. I don't want to talk. I don't want to leave. I don't want to think about the next ten minutes or few hours or days or weeks and certainly not years. I don't want to think about dreary ole time. I was never meant to be bothered. My door's already locked, but you're still bothering me.
