I wake up and everything still feels a dream.
My mind flips through thoughts- scattered pages, tucked away for later,
and then sorts itself tidy like a ream of paper.
I curse, as my regret whispers “Do you feel any safer?”
I stare, stone-faced, at the cashier as I glance over at my vices.
Ice cream. Alcohol. Smokes. The exception of Water.
I curse again, as if it would give my mind any less bother.
As though I could ignore any empathy,
As though my mind wasn’t steadily and heavily exercising its’ right to be an enmity towards me.
I ring my mental Department of Labor and ask how long it’s occupying its chamber.
“I see.”
At least today. Tomorrow. And the week after. Months later.
After this break-up, I sit in my room, no longer wishing to wake up,
I put down my clothes, lay up my clean pair, and I attempt to switch off my mind’s wailing.
My heart stays on.
Click.
...
Click.
Click click click click.
I try, knowing the failure.
Two days after a break-up, I know.
I’m my own jailer.