we are all displaced from our lives and my friend comes around with drops of lorazepam to put on our tongues. it is a warmth on my tongue that moves down to my crotch and makes my brain feel the way I think a sloth feels looking at a leaf in the sun. I wonder always how the medicine i take will effect my dreams. 

we don't eat regularly and there are books and hangers on the floor from therapeutic cleaning we started and never finished. that shit used to drive my dad crazy. so it stays because this isn't a place for what drives men crazy. 

I sleep in fitful and desperate bursts and wake up often with sweat pooling in the hollows in my chest and whimpers coming from my throat that I can't remember the origin of. you don't have to read minds to know I was driving my roommate at the hospital crazy with my incessant night coughing and terrors. I don't know what upsets me anymore in my dreams but it perches on the line between sentient and subconscious and throws its own feces over whatever side it's feeling vengeful toward that day. 

there is something ancient and old and sacred about a house full of women mourning. quiet sock feet followed by tiny clicking dog familiar nails as you sob down the dark hallway. 

Will you check if she's ok will you lay down beside your sister and feel the fragile curve of her back rising and falling to erratic breaths and expelling tears like a languid sprinkler system. you sowed the seeds of sadness but now I'm here to bring the crop in. it's emptiness in my eyes that don't focus or recognize and blisters on my fingers from holding too tight.