Quiet On the Set, Action

Every morning spent hours, unmoving in bed. Watching the bumps and the cracks and nothings of the ceiling. Unreality. Get up at the last minute. shower, dress, eat, leave. My toothbrush hasn’t touched my mouth in a month. And I find my dreams are filled with nicotine, blazing fires of kerosene, Uncomfortable moments of obscenity. “Please don’t touch me [there.]” Every scream in my mind, almost never leaves my throat, Despite the relief I know it would bring me. And I find myself staring, At the wisps of smoke, That find their way and explore the wind, Trailing off my cigarette butt, “I could fix this all. Nevermind. Stop the scene, cut.”