It’s hard to keep track
when the sun doesn’t shine.
Time is slippery, days are weeks.

Friday comes and Sunday goes,
the coffee is gone, again.
It’s February, right?

To wake is baffling,
I am alive?
My limbs arrive independently,
lifting my corpse from the sheets.
My brain stays planted
as my body staggers away.
A rusted machine.

The office summons,
but so does the tub.
Steaming, scalding water
reddening my skin,
provoking texture.

Existence is listless,
blackness returns.
The night takes me back.


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