Am I Stuck?

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?


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