Symptoms of Dissociative States

Were those whispers
not emotional safety
scissors
I’m still using to
draw the life from blue
veins;

man, I could have
hurt myself quite badly.

Were the voices that make me
madly fall for the
idea of you
not real, just symptoms of
dissociative
states,
romance
would be
DoA;

dead on arrival,
every shade but
black and white.

Gods of grey areas
that threatened
to carry me toward
crossing lines
thought I wouldn’t notice
laser lights,
thinking me
colourblind,
despite their being
red flags in obvious
darkness.

In conversations with quiet,
I am the arsonist;
architect of
falling apart,
demolition down to a science.

Did this monster not require
a steady diet of greens, true
sanity would never
be clean so
I let the
voices scream ’til all hours,
every love story be soured by
objectivity.

Was this creature never part of
the equation,
I’d only be
an asshole on
special occasions
and I would still
feed it the
smoking leaves.

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5 thoughts on “Symptoms of Dissociative States

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