Organic

I miss you more after 1 a.m. It’s only then, when things get quiet and real. When solitude occurs like a sharp blade on a whitened forehead, a surreal poppy in a snow field. A magic spell in a ghetto of grey bricks screaming “we dont need no education”.

here’ve been enough blizzards for one winter, enough mary-go-rounds for one child. Enough kidnappers for the same butterfly, turning into a spider, crawling behind doors and promising people he is God. In the end it’s just the giant hydro molecule of a dissociative life.

Utopically, turning bipolar, splitting in half, in four, in eight, in four thousand ninety-six. Becoming glass, running towards the fire and cracking itself. Foolish hydro molecule aching for reckless metamorphosis. Foolish hydromorphone molecule, defeated by my mind, after 1 a.m…

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