Maybe I want to cry but my body is not inclined to do so. My fingers mistype; my neurons misfire. Words provide no relief; words are all I have. Peripherally from my pillow I see indistinct numbers; laterally gazing, they disappear from the clock: I am stuck between time's unintelligible representation and its indiscernible reality. I have static surrounding me; I have been lost in it for some time. I have lost 20lbs; maybe I can lose the rest of the risperidone weight. I have my space heater on, as always; its comfort embarrasses me. We all want to be loved, I guess. I want to go to sleep, that little reprieve from the onslaught of living. Maybe I will take doxylamine. Maybe my sleep will not end in the terror of waking. Maybe I will be able to cry. Maybe I can throw away this first-person pronoun and be something else, though my body is not inclined to do so. Maybe I can be loved. Maybe.
About the Poet:
Connor Orrico is a student and amateur field recordist interested in global health, mental health, and how we make meaning from the stories we share with each other, themes which were recently explored in his publications in Headline Poetry & Press and Plum Tree Tavern.