Still Life

I feel numb, like I want to sit staring blankly at blank tiles with a blank mind and glassy eyes. Just thinking, not thinking, not wondering about the fog machine that’s my head.
Brewing up a pot of french press, to sit with a steaming mug, gazing at a book, staring into multiplying words, developing digits, motions of their own.
I let my eyeliner tip play, never a perfect wing, either bent, striated or broken.
I let my body go, no workouts, no jumping about, floating aimlessly above my still self on the stale bed, eating stale bread from a tiny plate.
But not numb is my beating heart, not still is my flowing blood in my healthy veins, my taut skin on my pristine organs working seamlessly, not a tick, nor a tock, nor a murmur. Perfect sync of breathe and blood, flesh and bone.
Not a word, nor a glance, nor a thought crosses my throat, eyes or heart.
Be still, be still, my beating heart.
Stop still, stop still, red blood mine, my aching head, just be still.

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