I rub my temples
creating ripples with my fingertips
to break through the sleep of my synapses.

A banshee howls at the window
as I try not to contemplate on murder
I might scratch into vessels of opportunity.

I rub my temples
anti-clockwise because there is no moving
forwards through this sigh-inspiring charade.

Outside the world spins on
inconsiderate of the fact I can’t keep up
with the speed at which it throws life at me

from a distance.


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