I am not real.
A passing voice
You hear;
It’s all in your head.
That imagined sound
That nobody else heard
But you.
That weird visual
Hallucination –
“There is no one there,
You must be tired.”
I made myself this way.
The (in)visible one,
The (in)audible one.
There have been too many
Pings,
All timed out.
With time
Every request becomes
More futile.
The anchors are
No longer there.
With every word
Dissolving in the mass
Of everybody else’s voices
I have lost the energy
To raise mine.
Any motion of the
Vocal cords is now silent,
Only the mute squeezes
Here and there.
I live inside my own head now.
The palpitations,
The arrhythmia;
All the lovely companions
Have dug a hole
Way too deep.
The faceless presence
That eventually disappears
Into the background;
Nothing to say,
Nothing to bring
To the table
Of judgement.
Spotlight is like
Radiation exposure,
Melting away the life
I had pretended to have.
I am but an amorphous cloud
Floating above
The speakers and
Their pitches,
Disappearing in the sounds
Of the crowd’s breathing,
While losing the bone mass
Of my own existence.
I am not real.
Just somebody else’s
hallucination;
(In)visible,
(In)audible.
anxiety
Autopilot
Grieving the nonexistent,
Lack of words to
Put the picture together.
My brain is an hourglass,
Feeling the grains flow away
At a speed I was not prepared for.
The red might be at fault here;
The most faithful friend,
Who does not have the truth,
As much as we keep saying it does.
Why did I want to bury myself
Under that blanket the other morning?
Why did I glitch and zone out
For 30 minutes today?
Is it going to stop anytime soon,
Or am I going to live on autopilot
And stare through walls all the time
From now on?
Childlike curiosity and adult means
To numb oneself
Are an unfortunate combination;
Realising the horrible timing
And the futile efforts
Of trying to make it right,
And failing like a nervous child
At a school recital.
Watching my life backwards:
Scrolling upward in a chat
With myself being the only poster;
A collection of videos, music, and thoughts
That are too sporadic to follow.
Time to close it,
But I always go back
Without thinking.
.
.
.
What was that?
Oh, I must have zoned out again.
I need another glass.
Shell
Velcro thoughts,
So easy to lose;
They catch onto the sofa walls
And mix with the ones from earlier.
The smile dries up
And crumbles from the face;
The oldest masks are
The hardest to maintain.
Crowded air.
Too many breaths,
Each filled with a scream.
They take up the space
Around me; they intrude,
Shrink the walls.
Losing humanity,
Trying to grow a shell
To hide in.
Alone is better,
Alone is safer,
Alone.
Anticlimactic drumroll
Like a roadblock;
Any drop of serotonin
Is a wave,
Too hard to control
As I manicly try to grip on it.
The drop absorbs into the dust
And I stare at it,
Hoping to grow a shell
Day by day.
Prosecution rests
Unable to sense
The distance;
Executing
The non-existent punishment
That sits in my head.
Destroy.
Destroy.
Destroy.
You, undeserving
Sack of flesh.
The gloomy judge
Is exhausted;
Too dull to argue with
The rage-boiling prosecutor;
The flaming gradients on its face
Terrify me every second
Of every day.
It persists
At the back of my head,
Filing its way
To the stand,
Where the eyes have
No choice but to look
At the ugliness of the verdict.
Failure.
Undeserving.
Useless.
The defending council
Rests
With no further objections.
I am forced to absorb
The guilt
And be grateful
For the abuse
That my own brain
Has conjured
Without a single hint
Of concent;
So I climb.
I climb as high as
I possibly can,
Ignoring the fun comments
Regarding my hormones,
And aim higher,
So the splatter looks more impressive
At the end,
Even though
It shouldn’t concern me
Anymore at all.
I let the darkness in,
I let it take me elsewhere.
Let me have the ideation
That has been harboured.
Do we have a pretty hook waiting for me?
I would love that.
No more control from my end,
Just the rope.
Just let me tighten this knot,
Or use my best friend
Thay I have had waiting for a while now.
We can play a game!
There is a revolver gun,
This is a great game,
One of six,
Standing on a stool,
Tied to the big rope,
Win-win, right?
Roll-click-click.
Bang!
.
Done.
Over.
Thank you for watching.
Prosecution rests.
Viktoria Moon 