I am drugs.
Chemical reactions exploding within me seeping
Through my vessels, dripping out of my eyelids.
While I sit in silence after
You told me I looked frumpy in this dress.
I get sick from feeling so severely.
My skull an open bowl brimming with
Stories spilling out beyond the edges of my sanity.
Wishing words from a bourbon drenched mouth
Didn’t have quite this affect on me.
You wake me at 4 in the morning
Feeling strange, like you can’t breathe.
My reaction numb with dreamy obscurities.
If these really are your last words
I hope that you’re choosing them carefully.
When infected by pathogenic strains
The skull comes dangerously close to the brain.
Like ingesting psychedelic fungi
Making prior perceptions mundane and illusory.
Reality is but a gaseous reaction bubbling in the psyche.
From this truth comes the crux of my writing.
My dependence on an altered reality and your disease
Brought us both to the base of Pneuma Mountain.
Your illness, you called it a gift, a time frame
It rekindles my urgency to pen the final apex scene.