I see dusty fog,
stirring,
within the walls of the room that confines
both you and my
punctured conscience.

This space,
lacquered with distraught splatters
of *****-yellow paint
peeling off
like plaster to old ceilings;
it reminds you of refuge,
it reminds you of home.

I see the blood
of more than your own
pulsing through your
lithe frame, made up of a network
of veins that are just
a little more tangled up than the average person's;
mixed up like one cocktail
too many;
this deadly concoction I see boiling--
the steam being what makes up
the breath you breathe out
when you sigh.

I see a Contradiction,
something so rigid it never fazes
something so fragile
it'd crumble under a glassblower's breath
the shell like that of a pistachio
enclosing insides of cotton candy
and porridge mush;

you're a drug capsule
in need of dissipation.