Undifferentiated Space The apartment is too large just for me. Ants and scorpions and walled voices fill the empty spaces, the extra corners my body cannot curl into, I sometimes let them stay. There is never enough of me to go around. I am not well. I have the urge to burn my arm and smear ashes over the walls. To cut my thighs and fill the ceiling with blood. To make an impression. Suicide is always around the corner, under the page, the extra pencil lead. There are four rooms and two closets too many. I will eat some more bread and go to work; I will feel better. I am crumbling at the corners. Bits of me will dust-sift the page. How long will this continue?  ¶ 12:43 AM