Dictionary pages on my floor
Items lying haphazardly with sharp objects hanging out of their place.
My hair just like my thoughts, unkempt.
Surrounded by squalid to reflect my mood and mental state
A quarter bottle of scotch and 7 30cl coke in the fridge. The bottle of finished wine still lying beside a slice of bread like when you lie right beside your bed on the floor.
Haven’t wiped my floor and dusted in 2days, so I see more tissues than footprints on the floor. My allergies have residence now.
Walls keep screaming shame at me though I just sit naked, and no I’m not atoning for any sins. There’s really nothing to be ashamed of at this point, I mean what’s shame when your thoughts aren’t sane enough to process it?
My eyes redshot from bad sleep patterns. Haven’t slept before 10pm in 11 days and haven’t worked out in a month. All the energy I’ve saved is being used up by my brain and my head feels heavier than the weight on my shoulder.
These walls used to be comfort, these walls used to be a corner of solace, till I stopped listening to them.
The rebellion won’t stop, because its all in my head. They fight back the noise I give them.
And till I find my peace, and give them theirs, we’ll keep doing this every night till it’s morning.
still GIGRAW ©2017