my reality

The door to my bedroom denotes so many things: obviously, an exit into another part of the house, somewhere new, breathtakingly needed, right now. It symbolizes movement; stillness. Outside is 3 a.m., the wind’s constant knuckles softly knocking against the one wider-than-high window to my closing-in bedroom. It’s yesterday and tomorrow’s probably all over again: I’m sleepless. Last month the doctor gave me “something to help you sleep,” though I’ve taken about four moon’s worth, which helped, and I’m thankful to a god or God (right now I’m unaware and too neurotic to choose if I even believe), tonight, I’m thinking about emptying the bottle’s entire earth into the soil of my throat, burying and cultivating death. My mind is shifting images of the impure: My face, if when I die—the color of it—shall it become a purple hue? Perhaps alter into a rancid debut of a vulgar artist, whose hands have molded a once recognizable face into a mask suitable for in-dumpster viewing or scooping the filth of gutters?