the aftermath

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.