three o’clock finds me wishing it were eighteen and typing and typing, running on
chemicals and fumes and not wanting to stop because maybe I won’t
start
again,
just nonsense and I thought I knew what I was saying
four? and half-past, freezing and sharpminded, island of
fuzzy-blind halogens and too-cold floors and a
bowl of cereal, because I’m bored and starving—incongruously.
sullen little kid in too-big everything, swamped in
layers on layers of cloth but
still—the
bones buried invisible have frost on, glazed and sparkling.
nothing to be done. a-lonely,
drifting on sweet sweet dizziness
and cold ceramic, no connections necessary—not now.
not yet.
five and six-thirty come and pass and still
awake and staring and begging the hours to pass more quickly
…and nine and ten and eleven, floating up to catch
a green glimmer of reality but—dreams easier, finally, though
most of it is just thinking with my eyes closed and
back under—slept away
and noon? and eighteen…wishing.