“The more he withdrew from the world about him, the more wonderful became his dreams; and it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on paper.”
― H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu
Heated nights devour my mind—
hexagonal dreams, terrors.
If I believe it, my sheets are wet
with sweat. I can’t remember
anything. Not today, not last night,
not yesterday—not who I am
anymore. The landscape, jagged
like distant, abandoned roads
you and I will not see—not for lack of want,
but lack of access. What do I want?
My cuticles crack and bleed—
and even when they heal,
they bleed again.
My teeth and nails slowly pick,
peel, and prod
at an edge that expands—
ever so—expands like the universe,
expands like my nervous:
vast and tumultuous,
too much for my mind
to comprehend. I’ve seen the ocean
and the moon—in real life, in photos—
but I’ll never know
how small I truly am.
Still, it weighs on me.
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