The tightness in my chest grows as the shouting rises in a wave through my door.
In my room, in my bubble, I am OK.
Coffee, water, blades, art supplies;
pens and ink and paper,
Wi-Fi and smartphones,
and always the drugs.
My slight frame, underweight (so say the numbers, at least) and pale, sits upon the queen size mattress, draped in black knits and grey blankets to match my absence of feeling. Numb is comfortable and safe; warmth on my lips now, a sip of hot coffee.
I do not want, nor do I need to be aware.
Can't be aware.
Won't be aware.
Is it much better than shaving my head at dawn, spun out, after being awake 3 days that week? And as the euphoria dwindles, the dreams return with a vengeance, visions of opening my veins up with my stomach full of months and months of sleeping pills.
YOU ARE READING
Seventeen Syllables & Miscellaneous Rambles
RandomA collection of haiku I wrote inspired by a past friendship, and little bits I find already written, or in my head that don't have a place.
