stacking piles of trash and junk to walls through the door of my bedroom, there's a note buried somewhere in adderall notebooks and empty pill bottles that says you always make me remember the tiny things. i'm gaining weight fast and i want to dig my fingers through the surface of my skin, bury my hands in fistfuls of greasy, spongy fat and throw slow, off-yellow coloured punches at the ground. i'm finished with these too-human drives and impulsion. i can live off of only smoking cigarettes and pretty words. i'm going back to how it was before, damnit. i'll stop again when house arrest is over, but i'm going back to how it was before. 'cause it's been three weeks since i've had my pills, i think. i can't know for sure, really. i don't remember anything. i wake up, go to work, sort papers, come home and sleep. same process the next day. and the next. i don't remember sunrise, and i'm not conscious for sunset anymore. my life has taken on this carousel feel to it. i see the same faces, the same bodies of beasts running in circles for hours and hours, day in and day out. and i hear the same music, i hear the same laughter and the same happy sighs and all of the ignorant promises. but all i feel is spinning, the repetition of perpetual motion. holding on to a golden pole driven through a prize horse's head, my knuckles turn white and i need to close my eyes and count my breaths when i even hear her name.
can you believe it's only been a week?
