I’m ill.

Inside, not out, although the outside isn’t doing so well either.

I’m out of my mind, almost literally. Out of touch with myself.

No feeling, no emotions.

Nothing.

Just a blank page waiting for splashes of ink to appear.

A blank page with a blank face on it.

I’m ill, I tell you.

They tell me, too.

Too ill to work, but I work.

Too ill to fall in love.

Too ill to live, perhaps. Very, very ill.

And they feed me pills to help, but they don’t help much.

They give me exercises. 

They make me talk about my life and they take notes.

I’m a lab rat in a trench coat.

Examined.

Will they dissect my brain for science?

No, I’m not that interesting.

Not interesting.

Just ill.