I feel myself sliding away.
It’s not a slippery slope
but a steep metal one
cold and sterile.



My head hits the sharp paper sheets.
What’s a little more head ache when you’re mad?
Against my will, the night continues.
I’m carted off from room to room.
Shuffling around in my makeshift wool socks,


I’m a strange commodity collecting dust.


Dirt trapped in this steel wool netting
the itch
on my feet starts to feel familiar.
I force my hand out of a contorted fist and onto my scalp,
tearing out several wiry hairs in the process.
Soon enough, I’m Ally Sheedy in the Breakfast Club,
frantically clawing away,
attempting to dig towards my skull.

Knocking at that solid ivory vault,
I realize I’ve robbed myself.
In all the turmoil my hairs extend outward,
desperately grasping for any person, or object, molecule.


I could possibly create enough static energy to re-start my heart.