2 A.M. on a Saturday morning.

Let's just pretend
for just a moment
that my friends are okay;
that we're all okay.
You keep calling me,
and my thumb keeps hitting
ignore.
I'm good at that.

I feel like part of me
evaporated
with the smoke
as I exhaled.
It's like it
doesn't even matter
anymore.
Even if I achieve
perfection,
you're still jacked up.

What the hell is
your problem?!
I'm pounding on
the glass box:
your cage.
I'm beating it
repeatedly, screaming,
but you're not
listening.

I don't know how to
help you help yourself.
You're lost in a place
I've never been.
Don't worry.
I suppose I'll
catch up soon enough.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012