sombre

gladiolus eulogies

10:40 PM — monday october 11th

the alarm goes off. too loud, too sharp, slicing through the dream, pulling me out like a fish on a hook. i can’t remember what i was dreaming about, only that i wanted to stay. something warm, something soft, maybe a face i knew but forgot too quickly.

my body is heavy, skin stretched too tight over bones that feel brittle. i press my hand to my chest and count the beats. one, two, three, they’re too fast, too shallow. i drag myself up, limbs creaking, stiff. everything aches. always, always the ache. i think if i moved fast enough, i might snap in two. clean break. like bone, like wood.

the mirror shows me someone else. pale skin, dark shadows. a face. i turn away. my mouth tastes sour, stale like the air. i open the window, hoping for something fresh, but it’s the same. it’s always the same.

the clothes i pull on are old, shapeless, the fabric clings in the wrong places, the places i hate, the places that don’t feel like mine. there’s a mirror in the hall too. it catches me again. wrong, all wrong. i tug at the waistband, the collar. it doesn’t help.

work is quiet. sterile. the air hums with nothingness, like the building itself is dead. fluorescent lights flicker. my eyes blur, the computer screen pulses, and i can’t tell if it’s real or if it’s me. sometimes it feels like i’m floating, disconnected, like i could slip through the cracks in the floor if i wanted to. if i tried hard enough. i picture it sometimes. my body, falling through, into darkness. peaceful.

i think about death more than i should. everyone does, right? it’s not strange. we’re all headed there. some are just faster than others.

lunch is tasteless, bland, plastic. i chew, i swallow, i don’t taste anything. food is a function. keep the body moving. keep the machine alive, just barely. i think of what it would feel like to stop eating, to watch myself shrink into nothing, disappear. sometimes i think it would feel good.

back to work, back to the hum. time moves slow here. like the clocks are tired too, dragging themselves around and around. i wish i could sleep, but sleep never feels like rest. dreams bleed into waking, waking into dreams. i see faces, sometimes, in the corners. shadows that linger just a little too long. maybe i’m not awake. maybe i’m still dreaming. i can never tell.

home. my body collapses into the bed like it’s not mine anymore. the walls close in, tight, too tight, pressing against me. i lie there, heavy, feeling my breath rattle through my chest. there’s something growing inside me, i think. something dark, thick, like rot. i can feel it spreading.

i don’t want to be me anymore.