running on exhaust fumes
I stray, wilted,
feeling the accumulations of
build a crust around me
I am poisoned by my own
exhaust fumes and my body rebels against it,
removing the images of dirty dishes by passing out entirely I ache. I sleep. I slide into a state of such anxiety and utter desperation that every action
has an equal and opposite paranoia.
impenetrable fog. a complete removal
from the changing of the weather,
the transitions in internal seasons.
the fog sits thick on my mind and
heart. a guiding light
is found through the screen in my hand,
a false friend,
mistranslating my emotions and the world around me. if action brings good fortune,
change returns success,
then I wallow, static,
the day's dawning minute looks identical to the one at its dusk. I gorge myself,
engulfed in a blissful, indulgent fullness,
the strains of my gut a welcome distraction
from the aches of my spirit.
Zainab Athumani is a Kenyan/Italian writer and director living in Cambridge, England. She has produced plays at the Edinburgh Fringe and most recently directed a performance of Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit. You can find links to her work through her Twitter, @ZainabAthumani