Fractured Light

Morning fragments (like glass)

scatter across linoleum. The pills

sit quiet in their plastic days.

They whisper sometimes—

tuesday is green

wednesday tastes like copper

thursday has teeth

The walls breathe in out

in out

(or maybe that's the neighbor's radio)

seeping through cracks that weren't there

yesterday

Mother's voice on the phone:

honey are you eating enough

but her words come through backwards

hguone gnitae uoy era yenoh

I watch them fall

like dead birds on the kitchen floor

The mirror holds

someone else's face today

(I keep it anyway)

Clock hands spin

stop

spin

stop

Time has grown thorns

The medication cup

tips over in slow motion

white circles rolling

into corners where

shadows gather to watch

There's a garden growing

in my skull—weeds and roses

tangled with synapses

blooming in colors

that don't exist

The doctor's pen scratches

scratches

scratches

making constellations

of my broken thoughts

I fold these moments

into paper birds

let them nest

in my chest

where they peck

at what's left

of truth

Night comes

(or has it been here all along?)

The walls whisper their secrets

in morse code dots of shadow

...---...

Tomorrow might be

someone else's memory

but today

I am

almost

certain

of gravity