Letter to self:

(And after these messages, we'll be (b)right b(l)ack.)

This, is your brain on drugs...
and this is me with my microscope slicing your brain into bite-size pieces
because it's easier to swallow and it's easier to follow than the twisted plot scrawled between the pages of a diary that you slipped under your mattress because hell, you like to think you can't feel it..
i sneak into your mind when nobody's looking, least of all you still in bed half-dressed hair intangled and breathing softly in that typical twentytwo-year-old-quicksand way
and when i look at you i feel like the sun's in my eyes
carving your loneliness into thin lines that match the tracks on your
f(a)vo(r)ite albu(ms)...
re-arranging each skillfully extracted word into a poem you're not going like into
song-lyrics you would never repeat in front of anyone, especially the mirror...

...and they say the draught's gonna break any day now but your sheets are so drenched with sweat a sleepless night feels more like drowning than a dry-spell.

I''m just trying to show you there's something to this...,
like there are some shirts you just don't wash because the stains are the best part.

I need to prick my finger and write because I need to tell you it's safe to come out now and I can't think of another way.... then, gluing each piece down in a different place i lay the worn book on your pillow and stare down into your unflinching face.
Suddenly you blink and I hear something slide down my imaginary roof....the first fat raindrop soaking cold and impatiently into you I watch you rip the plug out of the wall and that melancholy cd skips to a halt.

Running to your window you part your lips as lightning strikes and I wring my hands, desperate to touch you but thinking better of it as you stand there watching the seething sun cry
and whispering,
'This, is my brain on drugs...'