Tracing Outlines

I wake to a ceiling that never changes.
The light spills in like an accusation.
Time is a slow leak,
dripping purpose onto the floor
where my feet no longer rush.

I used to believe in ladders.
Now I just stare at ceilings
and wonder if floors exist.

I measure my days in coffee spoons,
tiny scoops of borrowed energy.
The steam rises, restless and aimless
like thoughts I never finish.
They settle somewhere I can’t reach.

I used to believe in sunrise ,
Now I just pour the day
and ponder if hours dissolve.

I suit up for stray interrogations
pride buttoned up like a carapace.
Sweat trickles and tickles
like suspicion crawling down my spine.
I drape pantomime across hunched shoulders.

I used to believe in conversations,
Now I just nod my head
and surrender to the script.

I tally stones and crumpled bottles
toss them like failed intentions
into the bin of almosts,
where echoes of effort rustle
like mice skittering down rusty footpaths.

I used to believe in plans.
Now I just trace the outlines
and color them in with sighs.

I crawl toward the bed like a deadline I missed.
Even sleep feels like work I am not qualified for.