The smell of books wakes me up at midday
I spooned Albert Camus last night
And the night before it was Virginia Woolf
Another afternoon of waking up
To my own sick and twisted vipassana
Where the only movement my tongue makes
Is to clear my throat of phlegm
These four walls have become
The map of the world
There are no continents on my ceiling
Just old peeling white paint
And I am kept captive by
The neurons and synapses in my brain
Telling me I am lost inside myself
That my laugher is clogged somewhere in my arteries
And my joy is trapped gas that I cannot expel
And my spirit is engulfed in my lungs
That are filling up with fluid
Drowning every single reason for me
To get up out of bed each morning
And my ma says I indulge in this
Like a bulimic on a cake binge
But I do not know anything else
Except these four walls
Except that I am lost inside myself
Somewhere between the kidney and the spleen
Trying to find my way up the esophagus
And out of the throat
To speak my own name again


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