i feel beat down and worn out and tired,
tired to my bones that ache and creak and
refuse to let me leave the bed, which is probably for the better, me being
indefinitely confined in such quarters.
i say this is (probably) for the better
because it hurts to resist or fight and i know
this is one of the only places that brings me
solace.
sometimes i wish to rot in it. i wish for my mother to stop trying to wake me up and for the lights to flicker, dim, burn out, and for my mind and skin to rot, to decay until i am no more than a pile of dust. i wish my
existence would fade away as the
rest of me has done.
i tell myself to suck it up. i tell myself
to stop basking in this pity party and
to move, to stand up, to leave this
goddamn bed. sometimes it works;
most times i stare at the cracked skin
of my hands and wish for it to shrivel
away before my own eyes.
