after Sabrina Benaim
my bed asks me where my
will to get up is; my will to
get up runs and hides
under layers of illness. my
layers of illness ask me
where my meds are; my
meds are a brick wall made
of bandaids. my brick wall
made of bandaids asks me
for structural support; my
structural support is being
eaten away by unforgiving
termites. my unforgiving
termites bite at my brain
and whisper in my ears;
the whisper in my ears tells
me how I’m the perfect
picture of a quitter. my
perfect picture of a quitter
asks me why I haven’t just
smoked some weed; my
weed reminds me that I’m
the caricature of a stoner.
my caricature of a stoner
asks me why the fuck I
don’t just chill; my chill
asks me if my whole
personality at this point is
pain. my pain only
screams; my screams
demand all the attention.
my attention asks me if it’s
time to get out of bed; my
bed asks me where my will
to get up is.