Is there a qualifier for the absolute mayhem I inhale? I no longer touch reality with kid gloves. With searing rage I looked at the electric element on the kitchen stove. Glowing red, hot as the old piece of shit can get, my instinct is to press my arm against it against the coil as they cool.
Gulping air and choked on tears, I grab the coffee the pouch of rolling tobacco the phone and blast out into the midday heat.
Pushed out of my body I suffer the agony of separation. It is the ability to see but not feel the body. My tools to get back are limited; the older I become the less I seem to consider the implications.
Mad as fuck I suck down nicotine. I am a survivor. Of what remains to be seen. I need help in the form of a computer that functions, a home o my own, and a fall and winter to write.
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