Chronic Numbing

The silent death of down pillows wrapped around both ears beckon every twenty-third second of each minute, each hour, each day. How do I get them to agree that I’m already dead?

Just because they’ve cleaned up the mess on the tile with ammonia and bleach doesn’t mean it never happened. Secretly I’m ashamed of the stains left by the black tar of self-esteem on the lines of grout, so I move the bed over half a foot when no one’s around.

You made your bed now lie in it.

There’s a new king bed waiting at home for me under thousands of dollars of unworn clothes. This is who I am, who I’ve always been.

Shoes polished to a glossy shine reflect perfect teeth hiding razor sharp words. My tongue’s been known to kill without a license, drivers or otherwise. Is it wrong to miss the money? Happiness up to 70 grand according to the studies, the only thing I trust.

Even the reflection in the mirror lies to me. “You get what you give” echoes In all four ears. Maybe this is where I’m supposed to be.

The truth is harder to hide under fluorescent lights and green institutional paint even when I think in silk and fur. They’ve seen it all I’m sure, but are they as jaded as the mind that brought me all this?

The positive affirmation of the day is “I guess I’ll stay”.

Still I’d kill for a box of arugula.