and the air is foggy with wasted time
four take out boxes of half eaten food, moldy
stacks of empty cups of whatever drink quenched my thirst two weeks ago
dirty clothes upon wrinkled trash upon old papers
that i have slept on when i forget how to blink.
the bed is cold and not my own, but my shape is trapped in the mattress and feels like a hug after a day.
the mirror is warped with dust.
i am grinding my teeth through dreams and waking up with them as vivid memories
but no matter how long i spent counting particles on the ceiling, i cannot remember anything about it.
what is today? it does not feel real. my eyes are starting to sting
my body aches when i close the door behind me and i want to throw up.
shaking and shaking and shaking
as a child i would sleep with a stuffed dog, and now i sleep with my blood against my chest.
i wrote poetry to lock my sadness in ink, and now my poetry is just melodramatic.
hair wet with exhaustion, legs prickled with chills
i should shower with my lavender shampoo and the buzzing of the light bulb,
but it all sticks the same way-
selfishly, and drowsily
it all is the same.
my room smells like depression
and no candle or blister can burn that away.
ABOUT THE POET
Teague Johnson is currently a student based in North Carolina. She works with her school’s literary magazine and has lead the production of an open mic event to share students’ writing. Teague hopes to spread awareness with her writing and tell stories that invoke important conversation.