Noticing the indent in the mattress in the shape of my body as I rise to the door
The foam isn’t memory, just a representation of the mental state of me
My voice echoes the creak of the wood under my feet
Before the floor eveng gets a chance to speak
Activities of the day on autopilot, stress and worry in my bones
The weight of which not even betrayed in private
In the spit stained glass gingerly propped up on the wall, an image of me stares back
Acne plagues my jaw, sleep clouds my eyes,
Fold of pillows and sheets ingrave maps to nowhere along my cheeks
Finished and exhausted, the spirit of someone who had everything and lost it.
But I had nothing, and hold nothing stil.
Questions rack my brain in an attempt to suss out what I feel.
Am I stuck?