every thought is second-guessed
every impulse examined
every sliver of hope is processed
every emotion filtered

veering away is reflex now
turning around is routine
(you say you want a revolution…)
reaction, transaction, perdition

innocence burned away long ago
and ethics and morality a bare, ragged sheet I hang on to
and I’m four years old again, clinging to my security blanket
gripping tightly the cords of my parachute
and all I know is falling, falling…

every surprise evokes a startle response
every unexpected moment of joy smothered and choked
every pleasure deflated, conflated, derailed
and equilibrium is stillness, is silence, is death

skipping to the end again
looking too far ahead
the second hand ticks away
the grains of sand fall
and dreams of starlight decohere

only a hologram
an illusion
stray photons randomly striking my retina
painting images upon my fevered mind

not hate, but indifference
stifles me, muffles my voice
binds my writing hand
pins me to the ground
and I am a silent witness
to the atrocities I commit
worst against myself

everything is a clinical vignette
I can critically deconstruct
my own implosion
my soul crumpling inward
watching myself with perverse fascination
deviancy, voyeurism

watching myself die
microsecond by microsecond
and feeling hopeless to stop it