My Poetry Collection

My hands are so numb that even of the sharpest of objects feel soft.

I watch as the red light on the smoke detector flickers every couple of minutes.
I see the light of the street lights softly reflect through the sheer curtains.
I notice every visible detail of the dark room.
I reach my arm upward, toward the ceiling.
I stretch out my fingers.
The air is cold.
My hand is warm.

And I lie here,
battered and broken,
staring at the ceiling,
waiting for the sun to rise.