6 days.
My new record.
What’s yours?
Used to be three—
a little less than a year ago.
How long have you been up and wired?
When did sleep
become an afterthought?
Tell me.
I’m dying to know your number.
Do you know what the aftermath looks like?
I do.
At least the very beginning.
Long after you stop,
your eyes still remember
how fun you made the pain.
Your mind grows psychotic
—or at most:
tri-visions.
trembling hands.
attention span turned murder scene
and mood swings in bloody silence
Let the Getty in my voice glide you,
let the raw metals swimming
in the back of your throat
feel like braille does
to those who can’t hear.
And if I fall one day
and don’t get up—
I hope it’s hard.