1:20 AM

This is not a poem. This is simply a stream of consciousness with line breaks.
I do not pretend it’s a poem.
I am simply trying not to think.
To think, means giving voice to the thoughts clamoring to beat me to a pulp
The typical, “You’re not good enough,”
“You worthless
piece of
s h i t”
Such a cliche in every way, and yet what can I say?
It’s the daily the soundtrack to my brain
Alongside, “I want to die.”

So instead I try not to think.
I keep busy.
Busy, though rarely productive.
I try not to think about that too.
I make jokes about wanting to be in a coma so I can finally take a break
People laugh awkwardly, making a face like they’re not sure if they should
But what else is there to do but joke, and try to laugh, and not think about wanting to die

Not think about how tired I am.
Of life.
Of living.
Of living like this specifically, with nary a clue how to change it.
Blocked every time I try.
By the universe, by people, by weird bureaucracies, by my own guilt for wanting something different
Something more than this.

There has to be more than this.

I’m trying not to think about it.

She lays in bed, an arm by her side, the other lightly draped over her stomach. Her eyes stare without seeing at the ceiling, until it all goes dark and she remembers to blink. Thoughts drift through her head, but nothing of substance, of meaning. Random insignificant memories, snippets of songs, images that hold no importance whatsoever and so simply float along as she watches, waiting for something to grab onto and allow her mind to explore fully. But nothing comes.

She wonders wryly whether she has run out of anything meaningful to think. To say. To feel.

Movements are slow. It takes her ages to get up so she can do what she has to do. Longer still to get them done. The marrow of her bones drawn out and replaced with molten lead, it seems. She fears staying still too long; she can feel roots right at the nerve-endings of her skin, waiting for her to forget so they can grow and embed her.. where?

Anywhere, anywhere, just let her keep still. A shrub with leaden core, what a specimen she’d make.

The haze caused by the heated weather seems to be reflected within— a mist covering her emotions. She knows they’re there, but a dim outline is all she can see. She can’t feel properly because of it, either. Her emotions are reaching out a hand through the haze yet she can only feel the slightest brush of fingertips.

Everything is so… Nothing. Only those who’ve felt this before know what it means. Everything feels so nothing.

She lays on her back in bed, an arm by her side, the other lightly draped over her stomach. Her eyes stare without seeing at the ceiling, until it all goes dark and she remembers to blink. Her hair grows rapidly, forming bark, growing leaves, wrapping around the headboard. Her fingertips extend as branches and run down to the floor, taking root. Her spinal cord grows shoots from between her vertebrae and punctures through the mattress, entwining with the bed frame. She was still too long.

Her eyes stare without seeing at the ceiling, until it all goes dark. This time… she doesn’t blink.