ask me

They stand on black carpeted stages

Spurring words into rhythms 

I am guzzling coffee down my dry throat

My lips sunk into my head, teeth biting

Ask me to say something.

I walk down the pavemented paths, 

I slide my feet across the treadmill, 

I curl my toes around the bedside ladder. 

When will they touch the black carpeted stage?

My throat is still dry. I swallow my spit and try to moisten the answers 

I’m shivering at 4:30 am. 

They scared me again, but I refuse to write it down

Ask me how I slept. 

The only answers I gave were the ones triggered by my actions

The ones that I paid for. She doesn’t want to know me.

I paid her to have me stand on a green carpeted rug with a mucus colored couch

facing her

Ask me about my obsessions. 

I’m shivering and it’s 4:30 pm.

She asked what I dreamt. 

I remembered this time and black sludge is moistening my throat.

I swallowed it. 

Too vulgar, too painful. 

Why can’t I share how I lost a love, why can’t I write about music?

Why do I dream of snakes?

Ask me what I think. 

My throat stays fucking dry. When can I open my mouth?

My black carpeted stage is waiting for me..

But my trembling knees and cracking knuckles 

My words are nothing but stutters. 

How do I even begin?