I've been staring at the ceiling,
waiting for it to grow lips,
whisper something.
The hours keep bleeding.
Heart's a slow, ambered cigarette,
smoking down past the filter,
the last protective line,
while the world keeps turning
and I fall out of time.
I don't flinch
when thunderstorms hit.
Nothing gets in,
not even fires from hell,
not screams from the damned.
I'm numb to the neon,
cold to the touch,
haven't been going out much.
Wind in my ribcage barely gets out,
cracks the spine on every inhale.
Still here in the shadows of my room,
taking my time
as my life ticks away