stuck.

tw: kinda dark

There are 2,569 cracks on my bedroom ceiling

Thats 2,569 imperfections that are inherently

unrelated to me, yet I squirm beneath two thin

sheets with four stifled limbs perspiring from

exhaustion, detaining a singular mind that is

convinced that every defect is just a projection

of myself— a mirror displaying a reflection so

crisp, that I   can distinguish every individual

eyelash and the slow dilation of my pupils.

I feel I am nothing but the compressed oxygen

homing in the fissures above my body, warmer

than the duvets that chafe each bruise, pinker

than the tips of fingers numbing and blemishing

with deep, dark and fleshly corals as they dig

into the covers; blood flow pounding against

the pulse of sleep to ensure my deprivation.

Sometimes my bed is inexplicably liquid and I

find myself sinking in agony, my hands silently

slipping to cement my lips and nostrils; raw

skin, calloused and mucid, trying   to prevent

inhalation of this substance while gravitated

to the depths of the sea…

It’s water is coarser than bricks, grainy beneath

my lips and tongue whilst implausibly stifling

as I sink deep enough for the pressure to dig

It’s limbs between each rib and seize each

weakening muscle.

suffocating,

sweltering with

two eyes,

bagged and hooded,

pressed, parted lips

whispering to

opaqueness,

shadows

bolder than

seven hues,

barely reachable,

forever untouchable

i hide behind

tumultuous proses,

detrimental prizes,

fingertips peaking,

sharp eyes inhaling

a phenomenon

unbeknownst

to a heart of

innocence,

indescribably broken,

fractured,

wedged between

walls of reality…

stuck.