Shouting or Sitting

I was shouting again.

Crouched over the table 

with my head in my hands.

Nothing matters during that moment.

The mind is entirely occupied

by the fact

that the body is screaming.

The world might have ended,

and I would have just kept right on making that racket.

My friend on the bed was no help,

sitting there twiddling an old broken mousetrap

as he waited

for me to pull myself together.

Or was I the friend on the bed?

I think

I might still have that mousetrap, actually.

The one on the bed just sat

and spun that mousetrap around.

Little chips of wood would occasionally break away

from the frame

and spin off into the dim corners of the room.

The shouting one was in a dim room.

No corners stood out.

The whole place was a corner.

“Are you about done?”

I may or may not have said.

“I think so,”

I might have mumbled back.

The one shouting quickly became the one slowly standing up,

as it seemed as if the screaming episode 

was over.

And it was.

The credits began to roll.

Wait.

Where was I now?

I can’t be any of those words.

No one is shouting.

No one is sitting.

No mousetraps.

Nothing but white text.

Where am I?

I’m on the couch.

I’m not shouting.

I am sitting.

But not on a bed.

I’m hungry.

I’m cold.

I’m poor.

I’m lonely.

I’m stupid.

I wish I was someone else. 

I hope the next show starts soon.

So I can be.