Immortal Insanity

is too much to ask for space? a room to breathe. a corner to let my thoughts spill without echoing back like a mockingbird, to soak in the thin, trembling air from my balcony, hear the whispers of leaves tangled in the wind, and faint grit of the city clinging to my skin.

i think i’m slipping — my mind unspooling like a yarn caught on a torn. a cob of ants trickles through my brain, tunneling in patterns i cannot follow and leaving trails of restless fires in every thought. and i no longer see clearly, my vision smeared like the shine on a carefully polished shoe left out in rain.

my days are darker than a basement on a midnight, colder than the artic snow biting through the edges of my coat, and strange like my neighbor’s poorly designed backyard where the swing sways with no child and the garden gnomes that stares at me with silent judgment. shadows crawl along the walls, flickering in rhythm with a streetlamp outside that blinks in a language i cannot understand.

i wonder if this is what it feels like to be a mind unanchored, drifting on currents of light and dark i cannot grasp, tasting the metallic tang of panic on my tongue, feeling the prickling itch on my skin, longing for a pause, a breath, a place that does not hum with madness i carry.