I’m laying here
staring at the ceiling
feeling myself dying.
Chugging bottles of water like I could build an ocean in my gut
(or maybe a small pond— I’m not good at ambition)
Listening to Pharrell’s Happy
thinking about people saying they don’t get it—
a room without a roof.
And feeling sad, and feeling wrong
—thinking of grass on my legs, the itch
and what it means.