Circling the drain

I think I will stay in my room all night and all day. 

Unwashed, unrested. Swollen with all the nasty words I keep swallowing. Words that would hurt people

or break things  or toss the dirty laundry about the floor. The old water in the glass on my bedside will soon turn into something much thicker and stickier

and I can't wait to digest everything I've eaten. My mouth is dry. We tell the same stories over and over

until eventually they stop being interesting. What then? where do you go? 

Somebody's bathroom, to scoop your insides out with an ice-cream spoon. The red-eyed girl

in the mirror is pathetic as all the others. There's grout between the tiles. Eventually you'll have to brush your hair, wash your face. Climb back in.  Sleep is a galaxy of bruises. 

The glass of water is still there. flies too. The words spill out of me into a puddle on the floor

And it's ugly. I keep telling the exact same story. i have nothing else to say.