The ceiling hovers like an airtight lid.
The pounding in my head, nails,
I no longer resist.
I rest.
Rest is said to rejuvenate.
That’s what I’ll say I’m doing.
In this airless room,
I wait.
In the past, I had the strength
To run out the door to fields a flower,
To trudge toward the exit,
To crawl.
This state becomes the new norm.
I breathe smaller breaths,
Make fewer moves,
Eat less.
Oh, to fade from existence.
The crunching of the termite’s jaw
Muted, as from some distant land
Where destruction is merely change,
Deterioration is transformation.
I exhale.
Exhale.
