my mind doesn't exist
for the hours that follow my wake
i sleep a perfect slumber
throughout the day,
and my mundane tasks become melatonin
even as fluorescent lights
invade my better judgements.
friends grin at quips i do not understand
their pity leaks through
their masks of pleasant disposition,
in their pictures i rarely appear,
for the soil shifts far below my trembling feet,
attracting my vertigo close,
leaving my presence indistinct and blurry.
my belongings strewn carelessly
across my bed, my shrine,
sprout eyes at night,
watchfully gazing over my feverish stupor,
and upon my wake,
their unspoken taunts follow me
and marry themselves into my morning coffee.
everyday, it seems
i prod harder and deeper
at the soil of my eventual sepulcher,
colors will soon blur into one
distasteful, horrid puce: the color of my blood,
corrupted by the bitter whispers
of the coffee that keeps me awake.
when will it come time
for me to wake up to a warm bed
and a cup of coffee
void of acrid whispers and echoes
when will I learn to stop taking insomnia with my coffee
Editors: Uzayer M., Luna Y.
Cover Art by Shea Sinha