I've been shivering more than
usual, lately. The temperature
has dropped like my hope that
you would notice the shift in
my eyes - but still, it's above 32
degrees Fahrenheit, and I'm acting
like I sleep on icicles.
I turn the heat up, wrapping myself
in no less than three layers, sitting
near my desk and trying to stay busy;
distract - distract - distract
because I don't want the cloak of
dissociation to hold me down,
mouth agape and eyes fixed at
one point, yet focused on nothing.
The warmth finds no entry.
I don't feel connected.
To this body, to this world.
Images storm through the fog,
inky blackness and bloody rooms.
I can't write these out of memory,
too immobilized to do anything
but roam the vastness of my mind.
The spiritless wander here too,
libraries with dusty mahogany shelves
and not a book, or will to live,
