𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

viii

in my dreams i see childlike figures dipping their gospel hands into acid in order to feel the cruel pleasure i thrive from. i see myself seated at a diner i have never seen in my life, eating shattered glass and broken ribs for breakfast to complement the melancholy i know the day will bring.

i'm washing down the splinters with bong water and chlorine and all i can think about is how my reality seems altered. i don't feel alive. i don't feel like i exist. bony shadows who portray people point their virulent accusations at me, screaming about misfortune and stolen dreams. i feel at fault.

i retreat to the arms of the unknown outside to find children with horns and black tails pulling the wings from butterflies. gravel grazed hands swatting at the thin air until they come back holding tiny corpses. the sky is painted honey ichor and pink, though no sun or moon are present to infer the time. i feel like i have been in this place for a millennium.

the children smile at me, and though their teeth drip ink and the void of their eyes are anything but holy, i still find an element of innocence in their recognition. a small hand reaches toward me and i oblige so i can feel the warmth of another being.
but i'm still all alone.