wasted
I thought it was bad
when I couldn’t do
the things
I needed to do—
when food became a foreign ritual,
and sleep was a fractured dream.
When the laundry piled up,
silent in the corner,
and the trash remained
untouched,
an offering to my inertia.
I thought
that
was the worst it could get.
But here I am—
begging myself
to move,
to feel
something,
to drive,
to breathe
in the world outside,
to see the sunset
and let it fill me.
And yet,
I can't
even get out of bed.
I want to.
I want it so badly,
my soul aches for it.
I would give
anything
to rise,
to feel
the pulse of living
again.
But the hours pass—
slipping,
swimming
like quicksilver,
too fast,
too distant.
Where did they go?
Where did I go?
Four hours,
fours hours spent
pleading with a self
that cannot respond,
crying,
aching for the strength
that has abandoned me.
I cannot move.
I am here,
still,
wasted.
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