by Amanda Nemecek
Heavy hallways and heavier walls:
One foot falls as the other lifts to carry you farther, farther,
farther until you’re slipping through cracks in the tile:
Touch one, your mother suffers.
Touch none, you suffer just the same.
You seek the simplicity of the dead.
You are sick, but you know this,
More so than the specters of these halls,
Coated in white ego, careless of cracks.
Their edges are greying.
Yours have been washed in a faded mess of stress
and anxiety and the needle’s point on which
you balance your whole heart.
You’re still skipping over cracks in heavy halls.
You are about to tumble over.