Each day weighs heavily on your tongue.
Where do you go? What do you do? Who do you become?
You stumble into a yellowing kitchen.
Cupboard doors hang onto their hinges with tremulous grips.
The dishwasher has not worked for six years.
You slide to the floor and sit,
wedged between two cupboards and
claw at your hair.
If only scratches were cuts.
You would bleed.
Bleed and bleed until your frustrations,
and sadness seeped through the worn linoleum.
You reach for a knife.
Its dense plastic handle is comforting in your grip.
The blade is scratched through years of use, but
its keen edge still holds its promise.
The touch of steel is a balm.
You drag your salvation across thin skin.
Again and again the serrated edge catches, but does not cut.
You bite your lip and push the knife egde deeper.
One last time you desparately attack.
You fling the knife.
No strength to live. No strength to die.
You return to your room
and reach for a pen.
Its smooth length is familiar.
You rifle through an old, torn notebook
and begin to write.
The ink bleeds through the page,
marking your heartbreak as you
write and write and write.