you are not yourself.
you are suffocating, drowning within a vessel that is not your own.
your eyes crack open, meeting a dim lit ceiling's gaze, as if it were an abstract artist's version of stars. you squint, your vision is blurred.
you lift your arm, your fingers tremble, for they are not your fingers and this is not your hand.
they graze against glass, copper smothers you.
red drips down your finger, pooling into the palm of your hand.
you sit up, as the bed underneath you creaks.
your socked feet, but they are not your feet, meet with a shaggy carpet's surface, over a hardwood floor.
your hands fall into your lap, as the red splatters from your hand, onto the zigzagged carpet.
you sigh, it is the very first time you have heard your voice, though you suppose there have been other times.
it is hoarse and shaky, as if you were scared.
but what were you to be scared of?
the old television upon the ground accuses you of things you've never heard of.
your eyes dart up from staring at your trembling hands to meet the silvery light of computer screen glass that had caused your fluids to leak from your body.
you wonder what had happened to your computer screen, for it is cracked and shattered and has vomited it's glass among it's inhabited white desk.
your eyes trail over to a pill bottle, that had spilled and sputtered it's contents as if it wanted to get rid of them.
your organs cave in and your mouth tastes like copper and for that first time, in that body, as you were not yourself,
you understood something:
you wanted to get rid of them, too.
