my palms smell like the
coffee beans I didn't drink,
breakfast I didn't cook,

my fingertips are prunes
from the dishes I didn't eat,
they cramp from the

words I didn't choose,
it wrote itself, fed itself,
drunk off of caffeine

multiplied as the cups
stack, my automatic hands
pushed the pen across

paper, pushed dishes
through the washer;
these ideas flew
through autopilot