I got high on Russian poetry and terror
On the soft flesh of my bedroom carpet,
Red in the way it looked crimson through
Hazed eyes, psychotic musings taste of
Isaac Asimov and Braubaker’s Daredevil,
Iron pepper on my tongue, poppy blossoms
And sprawling rose bedsheets, red petals
Blooming against dark backdrops.
I hadn’t yet tasted certainty, I know now,
Yet I thought I had; fevered dreams and
A low whine in my throat, nestling by
The fraying edges of a sweeping gale–
There wasn’t much in terms of sense
And red LED lights danced in sorrowful
Pity above my head.
Juggle till your hands bleed, you have
Nobody to perform for. Still, you curtsey,
Dress catching in the thorns of a growing
Vine, suffocating, lifegiving, a breath of
Fresh air in the face of a slipping mind,
Juggle, juggle, and blood on fingertips
Tastes sweetly speckled, coppery.
Sometimes I think that rabid desperation
Still lives in me. I drink adrenaline like
It is a drug; Monster drinks and the pound
Of hearts in chests taste of relieved shivers
Down a spine– I live in illusion, in a fragile
Image of perfection, cured, healed, no longer
Dancing gentle ballet with sharp jaggedness–
Summer of ‘21; gentle nostalgia for red madness.
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