In my mind,I'm running backwards

in my mind,I'm running backwards
towards my bed,into chapped hands,
to a hole in the ground because
I'm tired and I'm lost and I'm overwhelmed
by a tide of numbing pain
that just won't shut up

the transition from idleness to bloom
is almost like tearing yourself off again
from the walls of an uncertain
womb-
the sound is too loud and the lights are too bright
and,for whatever reason,
it doesn't feel right
to call this chaos "home"

wherever I look,there's a hollowness
to the core of even
the most mundane of things,
which leads me to believe I'm among
a waltz of carcasses
that breathe and talk and walk,
but never do look kindly upon
running backwards