If I do it, will I regret it?
Afterwards, will I find
That the frenzied buzzing of thoughts
gives way to a mind devoid of anything?
That coordinating every
single
muscle required to stand up
is too much effort?
That, if I try,
I can wrangle words into a sentence in my mind,
but as soon as I open my mouth to speak
they disappear?
That, at dinner,
when I drop peas all over the floor,
I break down crying
because it's all too much,
wordlessly screaming at reality to stop
because I don't have the energy
to deal with this
on top of everything else?
That at night I'll lie awake
because I'm too tired to sleep?
A book,
a sequel to a series
that I'd never finished.
Posters,
ripped at the edges
blu tack bleeding into the paper.
A temporary tattoo,
that I'd wear
when I got around to it.
Remnants of a former life
tucked under a bed
covered in layer
upon layer
of dust.
The background of reality didn't load today.
The world cuts off at the end of the garden.
Glitches pass by – the fronts of cars,
with their lights cutting through the fog,
appear and disappear at random.
Mum tells me that, if I travelled
to the fence where the world stops
the field beyond would load like normal
and the sheep would pop back into existence.
I have no way to verify this.