is a tightness in my skull, like I need to get out. Like

I’m bound and gagged in the trunk of a car. The

overwhelming urge to punch out the tail light and

wave a bloody hand around for someone to see and

call for help. Squeeze the highway wind until it pops.

Have you called someone yet? I really need to

get out of here. If I could only wring out my brain

like a sopping-wet towel. Maybe it’s the Prozac, or

the Excel sheet I’m being paid to stare at, or the

energy-efficient fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, or

a combination of the three. Maybe it’s the microplastics

I consume from the teflon pot in which I make spaghetti

nightly. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’ll never own a home

hanging wickedly overhead (next to the energy-efficient

fluorescent tubes). Look to God for too long

and you’ll burn holes in your corneas.