My head is made of boulders.
My fingers are made of air.
My skin is too tight and backwards.
My bones taste like metal and chalk.
Language is a flock of birds:
I can't hold on to it. I blunder into it.
Seasons pass over me in seconds.
I want to hibernate.
My stomach is lead, my face is acid.
My eyeballs feel dry and asymmetrical.
I'm too heavy to lift, too light to tie down.
I want to drink a lake and eat nothing.
My chest rumbles like thunder.
Sleep swirls in on me.
Seconds are minutes. Hours are seconds.
My day is gone.
But without it, my day is torture:
I will beg for death, and feel close to it.
As the medicine waxes, my senses diminish.
As the medicine wanes, my mind screams.
I write when my eyes can focus.
My fingers stumble.
Another wave releases.
The fog descends.
I'm blotted out from myself.
I'll stop here, while I float away again.