it's a steady stream of homeostasis.
nothing good, nothing new,
the inbetweens of vicarious living
and good advice you wished you had to give yourself.

but there is no one.
footsteps meant for different doors,
kisses placed on other foreheads
and waiting;
you just find blank faces when you're waiting.


the only companion
is the consciousness,
the breathing and the up and down
of lungs inside caved chests.
the screaming, screaming thoughts
of having to get out and never finding the door

voices get hoarse when left inactive,
skin gets cracked left untouched.

you find the inevitabilties of
punching walls and throwing shoes,
and the collapsing and the silent pleas,
the thread of saliva dripping down on trembling chin.

you can only drown into bedsheets
sobbing after three sleeping pills and
a dreamless coma.

and all you have left of the completion
of empty days are the lights that blink on
in the empty halls when you walk them.






there's no welcome mat,
the only sign of life
is the puke stain
on the carpet.

09/15/2006

Posted on 09/15/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer