I wake on ceramic.
I put myself here,
thinking hardness might make a stoic of me.
It didn’t.
I lie under something with no name.
Not grief. Not pain.
Just: no.
No self to suffer.
No self to notice life passing.
No self to receive or refuse love.
Just the weight and the floor.
Then, from somewhere below thought,
below will, below wanting:
“Open your eyes.” I pause.
“O…
