These days, I feel swallowed.
Masticated, ground up ruthlessly, spit back out, my standards held as steady as my grip on my mind.
I crawl out doorways in clothes I've worn for the past two days. I don't even notice, until
a sidelong glance and a casual comment, "You look like you just woke up."
Woke up from what?
I haven't slept in years. Not that I'd expect you to know anything about me. Or my habits. Or the plague of a whimpering mind, the slow grind of the blade on steel, not to sharpen, but to dull.
That slow grind, how it seeps into your skin.
Fires turn to flickers, passions turn wan.
I burn candles by the window to remind me.