The drugs made his tongue slippery, a snake
shivering white powder, unashamed—
a quick snort from his hand, lips cracked,
peeling his smile back, his gaze drifts, blank
as walls of thick paint, deep hues curdling,
slicked, psychedelic strokes, in seizure.

A strobe cuts, slicing the crowd like a blade—
tighter they press, all touch, no tether;
hungry, he dives, a greedy kiss melting
in muscle spasms, eyes flickering, his soul
undone, unheroed, a heart pounding
its own violence, swollen and caught.

To be happy, just to feel, a blind wish,
eyes of trust, of terror, masked alike,
shackled in seconds of breath, each beat
drawing closer, riding ******’s cruel peak
under dark, tidal waves of night, colliding,
picking locks through consciousness.

Beads of sweat thread bad habits together,
strung like a rosary for sinners unredeemed;
we are the murderers of our soft selves,
our punishment twisting like smoke.
In his hand, the medicine man’s prophecy
dissolves, as music stirs a ghost of meaning,

a scatter of memories, vague, severed,
each doubt echoing our bodies, our homes—
this flesh a lie wrapped in pulse and touch.
Reality shock-shatters, a flat line stretching
until silence is all: the strobe dies
and he fades, release breaking him free.

The quiet underwater hum,
a lullaby of stars, a murmur—
universe breathing from its womb,
and we, small, ashen sparks, adrift,
a distant glimmer in the vast,
like sirens calling dreams awake.

She tasted ******'s slow dissolve,
a little calm beneath the tongue,
and hands that shook, still trembling words—
her fears laid bare in shaking lines,
as anxiety led her to cliff edges,
silent as the ocean’s pull.

She feels ancient, crumbling bone and sigh,
though he insists she’s still young,
but each high she chases, harder—
brown powder racing blood and heart,
the beat slipping, frantic, mad,
her gaze unraveling at the seams.

Past slips in, a nightmare child,
picking at scabs, laddered arms,
hair yanked as if by some twisted root.
And him—his weight, his need—she bends,
forgets as he pushes her close to oblivion,
as bruises bloom, a lover’s bloom.

With bite, with mark, she blooms and fades,
and finally sleeps, lips bleeding night.
Past cowers in the mirror’s face,
while demons swarm, clawing back.
The bitter pills she swallows whole,
their taste as old as ancient grief.

Beyond cracked glass, lace and shadow,
the old woman waits—her hand in Death’s.
Church bells toll the hour low,
as flames draw near and edges blur—
and in the dark, the moon hangs low,
her reawakening marked in ash and bone.

We the nobodies, shadows cut from the cloth of smoke and scars,
a fever of sweat and darkness pooling, tears of sorrow swallowing tomorrow.
They locked us in silence, mad minds forging new words, wild and sharp,
each syllable slipping from sanity’s grip, each sound a breath clawing free.

Everything slides in time, the tick-tock mocking us, echoes like footsteps
down the hallway of closed doors, promises that never open.
See you on the other side, they said, where death waits like a lover,
the kiss of a fist, sweet baby girl, sleep—don’t listen,
we’ll wait before sharing the truth, its teeth bare and grinning.

The mania whispers in dark corners, shakes the bones from rest,
and a thousand thoughts slice through, a razor storm beneath quiet skin.
Blood seeping down thick thighs, warmth trickling like proof—
still alive, still fertile with fear, birthing only dread.

He could never hear her, she screamed into an endless void,
her voice a smear, red stains across cold walls.
And no peace wrapped her, no quiet settled in,
only the whisper of madness, and the promise—
of a darker dawn to come.