I gaze up at the white plastic lights —
The pasty walls start dripping on my
Wrists are numbing but my legs
Are crumbling into a jar of spoiled honey
I dunk headfirst into the chlorine water
Equalising my thoughts and my
Disorder. Disorderly. Disordered.
Sinking to the depth of the military-grade
Pool and delicacies
As my lifelines are on hold
And my arms are melting into goo
And my hair tangling in minerals
As my legs regain their
Consciousness and the white plastic lights
Bleed into me
As I gasp for air
At the bottom of my own
Disorderly disordered disorder
If the moon was a man, I’d like to know how does he always survive the darkest night. If the sun was a woman, I’d like to know how many bravery pills she needs to take to dip into the void.
It took me at least seven years to guide myself out of the pitch-black summer sky, look into the mirror, and reassure the little child in frames that they will be alright.
If I were a planet named after Olympian gods, I would be the first to vanish into the soul-sucking black hole, but I’m not a planet, like you, I’m an entire universe.
And I refuse to explode.
