“…Any thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”
I can barely hear over the smell of decay
(sweet candied cadavers) buried under my skin;
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;
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.”