p.113

It could be exhaustion pushing my lids down,
or it could be the fear of what lies behind them.
It could be acid bubbling in my stomach,
or it could be loneliness begging to be heard.
I can wiggle my toes and feel the tips of my
fingers,
but I can’t grasp even the edge of purpose.
Numb is not feeling, but what is it called
when I have nothing to feel?
My eyes are a desert waiting for a rainstorm.
Soft melodies push against the walls, but break
no ground.
Long ago, I didn’t ask questions because I
didn’t seek answers.

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