Everyone used to talk so quickly, the world used to open up and tell me what to think. I flew once, I met the immortals somewhere between life and death, but I'm grounded now. When I plant my feet on the ground, the earth doesn't shift beneath me, whispering long-winded Latin words, shooting down the young, anxious doctors who sit at my table and hate me.
Let them hate me. Now that reality has crashed into my mind, there is another drug that can alter my mind. Isolation sends me reeling, my mind staggering and opening the way it does when my body is reacting to chemicals.
The lights are out in the house that doesn't belong to me, and in the dark I feel at home. Like I could slither away and infect minds with my sickness.
But I don't want them to have my sickness, because then a dying girl would live without me. Someone else would steal my puzzle pieces away, piece by monochrome piece.
My leg aches deep in the bone as I trail my finger along the blackness, tracing letters in the dust. A few gentle taps, a simple song, someone would flick on the lights, bang on the door, and the darkness wouldn't grip so tightly.
Instead I silently cover the keys that are white like teeth and try to forget that tomorrow morning I will discover once again that if nobody else care then neither do I.
Alone, I sleep.