my brain hurts: I inhale displacement, not air

constant pressure
of imminent disaster
wears you
away like desert winds;
bears you
away like solar winds
against solar sails
forever from center,
to vast oblivion in
cosmic beige

"Roasted? Dry distillation, brief man beast. Only  quintessence remains."
"Wait. What, does...? What  remains?!"
"Her hatred of you, her love of lavender tea and that other her that cleans your nests."
"That's all?"
"Oh, her indomitable will to continue being remains as well. Death is hearing her case for vengeance even now."
"..."
"Our business is concluded, our arrangement complete. Farewell, mortal."

they can, you cannot

You’ll only ever see them in photographs. In a way, they only really exist after the fact.

Eyes. See the eyes, and a phantom sensation of long fingernails flows across the strings of your abdominal muscles. Fritzing thrum fractures next, across the ribs. Then the face. The face.

The face that regards without looking. The cold, sharp shock of recognition drilling up your spine is not what you think it is. What of the dry flavor of panic on your tongue? The screaming in your brainstem? It’s not the transparent men taking residence in your memories. That’s certain.

No worries.

Not the day-dreamy, artistic type, I hope? They like to come out and swim in distraction. It’s the worst just before sleep. Eyelids cannot hide them, the transparent men.

So I heard.

Good thing there’s no worries.

Sometimes they click.

So I hear.

Perception

Woah. I didn't know you could experience ego death on Boone's Farm and methadone.

Wait, no. This might just be regular death.

It's not. It's not. It isn't fair.

It goes on?! Echoing silence and shining dark? Always. Cold linoleum on my fingertips unending. Final taste on my tongue, sickening sweet artificial strawberry... forever?

Forever.

It goes on, and it isn't fair.

a poem presented in a particular way

Fuck Me. And fuck this coffee shop.

The last chips of glitter stick to my fingernails.
(I know, I should quit.
 Microplastics only photo-
 degrade into smaller bits.)

Life is a beautiful Cupcake
with an exquisite rose,
such delicate folds,
impressive in buttercream.

Then a cockroach falls,
from an open cabinet door
into its midst.


The comfortable chairs are never free
because somehow I'm too nervous to sit in them.

The thought, a human might
land near to me.
It falls under fear, this morning,
but disgust is always a possibility.