3 weeks

Day one is heavy.

The bed feels like a coffin.

I sweat like a thief caught.

Day four:

my hands still shake.

The ceiling grows teeth.

Day seven:

every noise is a siren.

I keep thinking someone’s coming.

Everyone is coming

No one is coming

Day twelve:

coffee tastes like blood.

Or maybe that’s my tongue.

Day fifteen:

time slows to a crawl.

The clock whispers insults.

I whisper back sneers and snubs

Day twenty-one:

I dream in colors not invented yet.

Wake up screaming for water.

Air returns