Ritalin starvation: my current baseline.
I don’t get “hangry”, I get “miserably depressed”.
The water taps the windshield I’m hiding behind,
like it knows I’m in here.
Twelve hours, fourteen, who cares?
Can’t bite the hand that feeds.
Probably not worth my own idea of my worth.
Sadness follows me everywhere
in a pair of work boots.
The only shoes Sadness owns.

This is hunger.