alarm, the precious
interim
of boredom.
A carapace of dust
begins to form
around the plangent
call to self-harm—
but unfortunately,
also around
the one to self-
report.
*
It manifests less
like destiny
than cruise control
or autopilot.
After a while,
you feel blessed
to have no choice;
Never mind the abyss;
you have gazed
at the on-and-off blinking
lights of you life—
those phased
rhythmic stutters
of your days and nights—
for so long
that you've become
hypnotized by the sight
of repetition's ocean,
where thoughts don't dare
to delve
for fear of drowning;
where all your burdens
still exist, but
seem to lift
and drop themselves.
