There’s This Thing In My Chest–

Numb.
So numb, in fact, I hardly notice that I’m barely breathing–

So numb I can’t speak.
Or eat.
Or shit.

I smoke and I sit.

Feeling it course through my system like an ugly, anxious drug–
A HEAVY THING.
My mother always says human beings have absolutely no capacity for grief– and she’s right.

I stare blankly at walls,
my eyes tear up,
I’ve nothing to say.
Little to contribute.

There’s a lump in my throat. A big, fat dry one.
I’m stuck now.
Really stuck.

Caleb gave me a hug earlier and I cried like a baby.
A baby wondering what Leonard would do if he were me.

Flat lining.

(Beat.)

x.

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