Jet Lag

I am at some sort of loss now, buckled and broken
over my own knee and nose
to the concrete,
scabbed fingers searching my skin
for something to soothe, I went five days
without sleeping or exhaling, five days
crunched up into my boots with a red peel-painted smile
and I have been on bed rest for two days but I still cannot breathe

and suddenly it is time to turn out the light
but I am too head-to-toe bloodshot and busted to sink
all the way into this sagging bed,
and my fingers have not stopped shaking since two
Wednesdays ago

all I have waiting for me tomorrow morning
is a chorus of congratulations that will slide over me like honey
on an open wound, and I will have to breathe through my splintered shins
and conjure up a crooked Thank You, and convince my knuckles to stand still
as someone reaches over to shake my hand

but I will still be coughing up smog from the bay, still
dizzy and drunk from basking in florescent lights
for a week straight, and I have missed home, have been
shoved into airplanes and taxi cabs and I have been told to smile
through my grinding teeth, and I cannot unclench my muscles enough
to fall asleep tonight

and I am full to bursting with tears too tired to find my cheeks
blood too tired to find my fingers, a heart too tired to keep pumping
hour after hour after stretching and breaking
and drowning and drenched in the ache of isolation

I am at some sort of loss, forgetting
what I am supposed to feel
working my jaw for no sound to come out
it has been too long a week for counting days, and I am
ready to throw in whatever towels I have left