sedated

what is happening to my body at night should remain a secret, but this not
am I getting better? is the soft thing I regularly take finally working?
I pick this metaphor for you
but the stains are everywhere, down this paper where I usually weep
this, I weep the enormity of my possesion,
my anger, doubt, to miniscule
I forget staying awake but I won’t know by the time I finish this lament on the last page, I just know two weeks
I don’t remember torture but I remember the torment remains inside some verses
like the thing this noon, verses written by a sleepy girl who will sleep with the help of swallowing soft thing to minimise the size of horror in her grief

this is written early before the ending page when I can’t swallow sleep unlike the thirteen days before
I grab the blue lights and shoot it directly at my mouth, trying to find something I miss, that I don’t spill
that I need to rid off
but my mother’s gonna be here, soon the bawls of the street too, soon breakfast
and I can’t avoid anyone staring
what happens to the thirteen days? does it work? they may wonder
but then I still have to take another dose

the sun is close to soar their scarlet, but it’s getting dark
am I gonna heal?
please add something as the last sentence if the thirteen days don’t resonate to the last
have you cried again like a baby?
what happen to the doses of your soft thing?
please add something

I just stare at my fingers like how the girl in the blue lights tell me, this is what I assume you’ll say
it’s getting dark, I hope you say something nice