Even the dirt, sweat, and oil upon my flesh oppress me.
My bones are like pipe cleaners;
I walk like I'm dragging chains.
Tiny Christmas lights pierce my pupils;
I hear the ashes fall from your cigarette
as loudly as an avalanche.
I droop into bed
at the pitiful nexus
of open and closed-eyed dreams,
my heart racing,
shaking the hats atop the bedposts.
I'll stay with my mind in fifth gear
until I burst into a paroxysm of slumber
or get up and dust my bookshelves
until the next day
bludgeons my battered mind.