Coma

the acceptance of a burnout, if you will

And I hate feeling like wasted potential.

Because I know it’s the truth; 

That they don’t want to hang out with me because I remind them a bit too much of what they don’t want to become. 

At times I tend to wish 

that I would be diagnosed with a coma 

or something else so inherently incurable 

So that I could do nothing everyday 

And submit piles and piles of Medical Certificates to my teachers in school,

then to my bosses at work, 

and finally to the funeral officiant at my very own funeral. 

Because I know, 

that if I fall asleep right now 

I will never wake up. 

Sometimes it just feels 

like being sick is more productive 

than to be living the way I am now. 

I’ve been making coffee for myself every morning 

since I was 14 years old. 

It makes my intestines turn purple and the walls of my stomach curl inwards, 

but I can’t remember what 7 in the morning 

feels like without the bitter whisper in the back of my throat. 

I think about the coffee beans that weren’t chosen to be a part of my coffee.

There’s so many things I’ve been too scared to say 

that I think they’ve started building towers deep within my chest

And I’ve been waiting for a great big wrecking ball to come swinging at my ribs 

to knock the towers over 

right before they become a castle. 

Most of all I’ve just been waiting. 

My hand has been hovering over the doorknob for so long 

the door has been replaced by a mirror 

and the knob with a banana, 

but I’ve been too busy thinking about getting behind the door 

to even notice. 

Nothing seems to move me anymore

maybe it’s because I’ve seen too many Letterboxd movies 

or maybe it’s that I’ve read too many wiki pages on Ancient Greek civilisations; 

I no longer feel the rush of 2am, 

or the weightlessness of a run, 

now I just feel sleepy.

Four hours is starting to feel shorter than ten minutes, 

and today I had three coffees instead of one, 

and I haven’t been flossing, 

and for some reason I started to not like eggs

And I don’t know why this has so many ‘and’s, 

but I saw a picture of myself at 6 years old last week and cried for three days straight. 

In thirty 

or ten 

or maybe two 

years I will vanish 

or fall of my balcony 

or die. 

No difference to me, 

I don’t really care anymore. 

Maybe I’ll start over again in heaven or hell, 

or be washed anew by something of a God 

or undergo some other religious poetic rebirth. 

Although I'm not sure if God remembers me, 

or if I can even be changed anymore. 

Everyday at 6pm 

I want to run and cry and die 

at the same time 

but taking a nap till the next day 

is ten times easier.

Tell me doctor, 

am I in a coma yet? 

Author's Note

came super easy to me, but i have yet to edit it properly.