were i to eat the sun
and let its pulp trickle down my throat—
would i glow through the skin
like gods do
in their upstairs rooms?
would they pull a chair for me?
would they look me in the face
or through it?

what is it,
to have no one above
but still feel pressed from the top down?
the halls breathe.
the windows widen.
my mind reached the edge of space
and left static in the vents.
it drips from the ceiling
in the shape of warnings.

i drift through the folds
of my boxmind—
no doors, no exits,
just pill bottles echoing in reverse.
the corners hum in borrowed voices.
my tongue collapses
like paper soaked in antiseptic.

it’s always like this
when the antipsychotics dissolve
before i do:

time frays,
gravity peels,
and i wake up
inside-out.