Intoxicated, But Real

There’s a person hidden behind this syringe. The most vibrant personality held back by nothing. Worry slides right off my waxy skin in the search for adrenaline.

But reflecting a mirror induces madness, anger. There’s no reason to look away from a doppelganger. Less so when you’re not even the origin side of this parallel.

Staring at watches and doorknobs all day assures nothing. The room is still empty. But inside the slime buried beneath blue lines is the formula for happiness.

There was never a mirror.
There was never a door.
There was never a watch.

Grab the keys to the engine and hit the road, injure it. No passengers needed to reach the next destination. They’re no more than a thought of the past. But I’m no longer sure I even want to reach the destined nation. Being on the road is good enough.

Without fluids pumping to the beat of the blood the drum pressure is too rough. There are no metronomes powerful enough to sync a heart to the rhyme of thought.

At times, the best way to hear the tempo is to turn all other volumes down. I’m tempted to follow it into the woods. It’s seductive in a twilight zone kind of way.

Soundless and boundless define my bleeding mind when I struggle to wrap my head around this. The knowledge that this needs to be done, for my sake, cannot be fought.