Apathy

She screams in the night for a feeling, a nightmare,
any shred of time that would be worth the memory.
The world is dead to her
and she is dead to the world.

There isn’t any difference between each day for her;
living in a twisted, frozen
nutshell. Poised in a scene that never changes
with nameless figures, equally beautiful
and equally worthless.

She tries a laugh: a hollow sound that is swallowed
by the air. She scratches at her eyes
until the tears flow. This isn't sadness.
The books she reads are full of scientific
symbols and complicated sums.
They don't confuse her; she isn't frustrated.
But she longs to want to be.

At the height of this soft madness,
the pinnacle of this under-the-surface suffering,
she turns her head away
and shrugs.
What does she care?

Then why, if there is nothing left to feel,
does she break when pierced by sunlight
as another new day of watching hungrily,
needy, slavering and itching to taste
what they taste dawns?
There is nothing to gain through this.
But, she thinks, if I can fake this hope
then maybe I can fool them all
and steal what makes them them.

How does it feel to watch the sun go down
or paint the clouds because you love the sky?
How does it feel to laugh until you cry
or sob until you laugh, and everything's OK?
How does it feel to hate or love or
smile or dance or sigh or die
or dream or scream or...?

She will never know.
She hits the climax, painfully
aware that there is no pain here.
And so, she turns her head
and shrugs
and smiles, mimicking the gesture.
What does she care?
She doesn't want their disease anyway.