that is not to say I haven’t considered it. to be perpetually euphoric. to abandon lucidity as one would a child who tugs at sleeves and questions the colour of everything. I shall leave it crying at the train station, an exchange for two fluorescent tabs. then down nameless alleys t’ward home I will stagger, stroking stone walls and telephone poles that billow like curtains of warm amber gossamer.

and those men… when they come to me, parched with grey mottled lips peeled back to reveal custard molars that gnash and collide like wet crockery, brandishing tongues, docile and hung like defunct, limp meat cuts. pelvises bent forth as a compass pulled north. ruddy knees spread, smudgey circles of red.

then at last, I can put palms to my chest.
unwavering, slip into white-knuckled hands.