My laptop's wide open,
tabs screaming for attention.
Half a mug of cold coffee is chilling beside me.
So is a bottle of water I keep reaching for but never drink.
My body knows I need water.
My brain says caffeine is more damaging.
So I drink the coffee.
My temples are jackhammering,
a pulsing behind my right eye.
The air reeks of burnout.
And obsession.
And exhaustion.
And fucking writer’s block.
The notepad’s in my lap.
My pen's tapping against my lip.
There's no music in my head.
All I have is rhythm with no spine,
drive with no heartbeat.
I don’t even want to send the rap anymore.
But now it’s war against art?—
a fight between me and the page.
And I don’t lose to shit I create.
It’s been three days since he walked away.
I thought he would’ve texted by now.
But no texts came through.
Not even ahiorfuck-you.
I keep checking my phone like a teenage idiot,
thinking about him when I swore I wouldn’t.
My head’s full of him,
and I hate it.
