My thoughts are disassembled and locked away in the cupboards.
My feelings are below the sink, hidden near the dryer, buried in the yard, and in the car's trunk,
they can't be too close or they're talk and conspire.
I don't know the hands that screw the doors shut, they're mine and they belong to a numb being.
There is no soul left to move the fingers and to turn the screwdriver.

I'm left in pieces; not broken, just apart and dysfunctional.
I look at the world through water-like lenses that may as well be glass.
I taste nothing, I smell nothing, my hands do not register the cold.
I feel it all, smell the smoke, taste the ash, but I am indifferent,
I am away, in my pieces, too far apart to care.

Somehow I feel the discontent.
I must not have locked it tight enough this time.
The screams of the tortured are muffled by press board;
they land on the deaf hearing ears of the body that was their home and is their warden.

For some reason I loosen the screws before I sleep.
I let him break out in the darkness and violate me.
He tears apart my perfect calm and shreds my blank mind;
he is an infection that turns me into a sick version of myself.
For some reason he loosened the screws.

While I sleep I break free from the cabinets, the crashing splinters vibrate the floor.
"Return to the body, my severed soul, forgive me for rejecting you."
I think to myself as I sleep.

I never remember the nightmares.

I wake up, my face covered in salty tears.