I stepped out onto the front porch at 4:48 this morning. Keys sang in my gloved hand, matching the mix of rain and hail pitter-pattering on my hooded head. The frost of the wind sucker punched my lungs. The snow crunched under each boot step as I walked to my car. I was not truly paying attention; it scared me as I sank. A field of pure white, that muffled everything granting the absolute. I trudged through—it was 4:56 a.m. Car door was encased in ice, I pulled and ignored the crack. A sound that traveled for what it felt as miles. I sat, turning the key and latched down my seat belt. I closed the door; anemically, the car awoke. My breathing softened; my chattering teeth began to subside. My breath infused into my gloves, warming myself as I sat waiting for the heat to kick in. A squeal snorted through the engine bay. It is a belt that needs to be looked at. I have been too apathetic to go. My eyes glanced up; usually at this time, the sun would peek its little head out. I saw nothing. It has been like that for the last couple of days. My routine has been pointless, there was nothing left for me here, and work was canceled due to the snowstorm. I stared into the rearview; I did not like what stared back at me. My eyes had grown tired in a face glazed over in a pale tint of listlessness. Bags under eyes carrying luxuries for the occupied hotel of hypersomniacs. I am tired of being so very tired. I looked so pale, white as paper. Inhuman, feeble, sickly. I waited for the glimmer of hope this morning. To see the beauty of Apollo within his natural state. It was 5:06 a.m. I saw shadowless movements, all my own. I turned off the car and let the keys hang. My eyes started to feel heavy and hung like that of bloodhounds. Shoulders started to curl inwards, mimicking my spine. I sat there in silence listening to nothing. Nothing listened to me. It repeated back, saying the same thing over and over again.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
Just hide in bed, stay. At least you don’t have to act as if you tried. There wasn’t any point.
It was now 7:49 a.m.
S.R. Azazel (he/him) is a small, celebrated poet known for exploring themes of love, pain, heartbreak, and the nuances of human psychology. Amassing a small but just and noble following on Instagram, S.R. Azazel’s debut collection, To the One I Labeled as Divinity, earned positive reviews and acclaim. It’s praised for its rawness in the dissection of the broken hearted.
Instagram: @srazazel