there’s something in my lungs and it’s craving to get out.
there’s no light
i can’t even see what i’m writing
i’m writing again
they were stuck in my lungs and, yeah, i couldn’t breathe
it’s been a while
she lights a cigarette and it fills her lungs
but she’s still breathing
i can’t even see
my words are intertwined
i don’t even know if i’m going to understand this in the morning –
“in the cold light of morning” –
my hand is moving on its own
it really is.
i look at it and i realize
i’m out of control, i have no grip
i look at my hand and i feel
it’s a different part of.. well, not my body
it’s not mine, not tonight.
my eyes are wandering
i’m looking around but i’m not here
i’m somewhere else
i’m out of my mind
and then, it’s gone.
i overthink, i always do – i shouldn’t have.
i’m craving more but i dare not say
i want more, i do;
it takes me away from everything and i want to be away
i want to be ink on paper
i want to be wind sneaking through the window and into my lungs
i want to be a fingerprint, a fingertip, a finger or maybe even a hand
i want to be detached, to be able to look at something and be unsure of it’s existence
i want. i just want, and i can’t have.
street lights suddenly strike me
my eyes widen; i could see what i’m writing
i realize what i’m thinking, or that i’m actually not.
it’s dark again,
i’m there, i float
and i stare
at my hand, and the ink, and myself
and i see nothing
i’ll just go now, i want to go now
i’ll just live in the lines on my palm or in between the prints
on my fingers
i’ll be the words i can’t see, the ink i seldom spill
i’m not here.
and i’m no longer me.