Punctuation

Just Don't Want It

Today I am not human.
I am not happy, I am not caught up in thought, I am not a regular piece of conversation.
Today I am my disease.
I woke up in the middle of the night with tremors and a cold sweat.
Dosed with watermelon and regular root-beer to wake up "uncontrolled" and somewhere in the clouds.
Though, it wasn't a peaceful experience, or one I would be relating as fun.
Today I am not awake.
My eyes are open and words are fathoming from my lips.
But my brain is just not in it.
I've cried over little things, things that are nonsense.
I've torn apart my room to look for something in my hands.
I am a curdling mess of tears and I find myself falling victim to exhaustion even further with every step I take.
Today, I am not me. I am not smiley or happy or sunny. I am not giggling or hugging or showing my teeth.
I am hardly opening my mouth.
There's nothing to be said today, not a word or sentiment I would sincerely express.
Anything you tell me, I might forget tomorrow because my memory is just not with me.
I don't want to write an essay or polish up my mathematical equations.
I don't want to clean the cat box or pretend like I care about my grades.
I don't want to feel the stress accompanying a college student's lifestyle.
I don't want to answer questions or carry on a conversation.
I don't want any of it.
I want a cup of hot coffee and a day-long experience of laying around in silence or with the company of my television.
I feel empty, yet so full of all of these broken pieces, that I could possibly explode from the pressure of capacity.
I want silence and dark storm clouds and warm blankets and pillows. I want to be curled up in a ball, crying to my dreary heart's content.
Alas, I find sunshine and laughter and bubbly conversation inviting me in.
And I want to want it.
But I just don't want it.