Lying on what wants to be a sofa,
but is instead a glorified chair—
My head rattles with failure,
as though it ought to mean something.

My hands hang limp.
My fingers jitter around the floor;
praying for a cat.
Or demon.

The TV continues its shite.
Blaring out noise
to conquer more noise.
Folding in on itself.

Nothing trying to make sense anymore.

Then the irony,
of…