They go

They go
By Jaz McDougall
27 December 2011

I sweat them out into my mattress.
I blink them from reddened eyes.
I shave them from my scalp.
I shit them into the toilet.
I squirt them in fists.
I spit into the sink.
I give them away.
I let them out.
I lose them.
They go,
I don't.
I
feel
like I
should
want them
back, but when
they go, I get less
human, less worried,
less angry, invested, alive.
I don't care as much about traffic
or justice or trying so hard to survive.