There are healthier ways to distract a troubled mind,
But meditation is not meant for the mind that holds
seven voices
Whispering in your ears each desperate attempt to absorb a moment
of silence.

You can drown the nagging with a glass of bitter liquid
Until the bottle is dry enough to be used as a vase for a bouquet of
Baby’s Breath
Your conscience is soothed at the sight when it’s convinced you've turned addiction
Into art.

Weeks will pass before you notice that the flower has refused to age.
As your fingertips graze her brittle body, only then do you realize
It’s dead.
But even in death the Baby’s Breath looks just as beautiful as the day you drained
the bottle.

Its corpse frozen in time, you begin to wonder if something died within you
and drained the contents of your being, preserving nothing
But appearance.
And you wonder if anyone noticed or cared enough to mourn this internal death
Or perhaps

We are all just empty people carrying our own dead weight
so gracefully
That no one will ever ask or admit how painfully heavy it really is.

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