young prose

every day. i wake up. check the time. it’s six a.m.
then roll over back to sleep. when i remember.
it’s just another day.

every night. i collapse. attach the tube. squeeze the bag.
surrender to the drip. to the random noise.
to the fictions, assembled to spec and painted as truths.

once. i might have objected. but now i can’t remember.
distracted by the shapes that shift among the static.
in my feeble, empty mind.

maybe if i had a mirror, i would see.
that i’ve grown acquainted to wasted time.
or maybe i wouldn’t recongize myself at all.

maybe i would mistake it for a window.
i would look out and see humanity.
and that i am not so different.