I stare at the wall until the cracks in the drywall start to move
The lamp on the stand has conversations with me
And I answer back.
"Don't talk to strangers." my mother had always told me
But, at night, when you're strung out and your eyes are as dry as your throat from screaming at your insanity
You'll realize that you're desperate to talk to almost anything, and at those times,
Those things aren't considered strangers
They're the closest thing similar to you in your own world
Until
Your reflection from the mirror on the wall, across from the bed, is not blinking
At the same time you are
