You still need a reason.

That’s what you tell yourself as you sit there, constantly tapping away at the wall beside you, then at the side of your head and back again, slamming your fingers over and over against your own skull until they turn numb, just aware enough of it as you’re doing it to hate yourself for the stupid meaninglessness of it, but never aware enough to tell yourself why you’re doing it, to see some pattern in this burst of idiotic chaos.

You still need a reason for it when you crawl into bed and spend what seems like hours rubbing your face into your pillow,its like you’re not really there in the bed, and able to let yourself sleep, until you’ve made yourself raw with its subtle and strange roughness.

You still need a reason for the way you’re not at a place until you’ve felt it, the way you’re not really there in that moment until the cold marble and crumbling stone of it has left some subtle sensation in your fingertips.

You still need a reason for the way you laugh when nothing around you is funny.