I have to sit and comprehend that I am not
what I used to be,
not a killer mistrusted
but a killer that roams freely of its own doing,
choking away what was left,
consuming the breath.
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash
Rushing, these chemical forces veiled
through the curvature of these tiny, tiny fleshes,
flowing and moving,
seeking a kind of retribution.
Although the mind speaks,
and in its speaking
the lucidity of the syringe
becomes the only honest thing left in the room.
I used to fear what I might become.
Now I sit across from it at the table
and pour it another glass.
It doesn't ask permission anymore.
It just walks through me
like a hallway it has always owned.
Somewhere under all this smoke
there is a version of me
that still remembers sunlight,
that still remembers
not needing anything
to feel like a person.
I am looking for her.
I keep looking.
