Atrophy

“…Any thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”

 

I can barely hear over the smell of decay

(sweet candied cadavers) buried under my skin;

the indecision.

 

I’ve forgotten what catharsis tastes like.

These bottled emotions are vintage,

lavender, licorice, leather.

 

I chew my cheek, swallow tongue, spit out pleasantries.

My nails carve canyons into my palms

while the doctor picks at scabs.

 

You can’t feel sad forever; we’re not built to sustain it—

but the banality of a listless life might be worse.

A dull knife.

 

My apathy is an accomplice to apathy;

to atrophy,

 

sticky, sappy molasses

clogging my arteries with idle thoughts.

 

I want to scream and scream and scream and laugh—

we’re both waiting for the answer—

 

“…Uh, no. No, it’s not that bad.”