Air turns stale.
I breathe the dust of dying cells.
Controlled drugs crawl through slow blood,
casually deadening,
but not enough,
as I try to assess which parts of me
have atrophied
and which remain.

I listen for the sounds
of nerve responses misfiring,
[faulty neurological wiring].
This is getting to be a habit.

I don't remember it being this hard
to give a shit about things.
I'm probably just tired of my own brokenness,
of this sense of being fragmented,
vague, disjointed,
less than.

Increase the dosage
and wait for chemical reactions
to start undoing me.

Day breaks for those who might have use for it.
I wait and hurt,
ignore shrill, senseless birdsong,
dream of sleeping.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...