White Stuff


quicksand
in the skull I slip
Into sunken dreams
contiguous to the world of the sleeping
And the awake
a sticky marsh lies
within the in-between
temporarily
this white rib cage on my plate
Sent me to this place
with this cosmic warmth that fills me from within
So sacred in all its glorious contentedness
I can taste, on the tip of my tongue,
serotonin
Chemical means fleeting, fallible,
short lived
grey matter knows no difference
between this and the real thing
So I consume, and I consume, and I consume
Until I can’t breathe (literally)
Until I can’t sniff any more
and I wade through dizziness
Sticky bliss
And feel what sobriety
Has never given me
Eventually I’ll enter the ether
to dream amongst clouds
and wake up tomorrow to the piercing sound
Of regret
And a pulsating headache
Each bludgeon to the inside of my skull
A reminder of why
I can’t pick up again

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