Overbooked

There’s no room left for a breath or a blink,

just the aggressive scrawl of the permanent ink.

I’ve buried a birthday under a root canal,

turning a celebration into a clinical trial.

The red pen bled through to the month of December,

marking a day I’m not sure I’ll remember.

It’s a cage made of boxes, a grid for the soul,

trying to keep the wreckage under some kind of control.