Me vs the Floor vs You

i’m on the floor not by choice, but by gravity and the kind of despair that smells like vodka and the day’s last meal. the room spins, those ethnic carpets under my head you bought from a guy who said they were “hand-woven,” probably made in a factory by a 12-year-old with better dreams than us. and that painting? i still don’t know who did it. maybe god, maybe one of your artsy friends who supposedly learned ‘how to bleed’ without cutting skin. the dog’s chewing off my limbs now. she doesn’t bark, just gnaws as if she’s got some silent grudge against me. maybe she does. maybe she saw what i did when you weren’t looking. you don’t notice. you’re staring at your own hands, itching for something that makes you feel less alone in the worst way. you don’t like silence unless it comes from someone you’ve beaten into it. you want it all, schedules, goals. i want a closed door and a window with nothing behind it. we used to talk. now you time my answers. you love the ticking, not the bomb.