The morning-after pill.

Alas, I woke up. It’s bright. Moving. Running. The world, I mean. The world runs like nothing cracked inside it last night. Like no one begged the dark to take them. The begging of last night is present now only as remnants of vomit in my mouth: acidic, shameful, a reminder that even the body wants to purge the soul sometimes. The light pierces in through the curtain like a blade. Not warm, not gentle. It hurts. It feels like punishment. Like the universe saying, “Get up. I dare you.” Which L-pill do I take to kill this light? Lorazepam? Lies? Love? Or maybe just a long look at the ceiling until it swallows me? My limbs feel nailed to the bed by invisible grief. I stare at the ceiling like it might offer me some explanation. It doesn’t. It just stares back, white and unmoved. The room smells like stale tears and bitter spit. Time has no shape here. It just drips down the walls like condensation in a place long forgotten. My phone lights up. A message from someone asking how I am. I want to reply: "Rotting, you?" But I type “fine” and throw it to the floor like it’s radioactive. There’s a dull ache behind my eyes. A fatigue that isn’t physical. It’s spiritual. Existential. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep but only with oblivion. I pull the blanket over my head like a shield. I don’t want to fight the light today. I don’t want to be brave. I don’t want to be seen surviving. I want stillness. Not healing. Not hope. Just stillness. Just for one day, I want the world to stop spinning and let me lie here without expectation, without movement, without the need to pretend I’m okay. But it won't. And neither will I. Because the cruelest part of it all is this: I woke up. Again. (I could not do it...)

- Oizys.