Ghost With No Weapon (POEM)

I have to sit and comprehend that I am not
what I used to be,
not a killer mistrusted
but a killer that roams freely of its own doing,
choking away what was left,
consuming the breath.
https://img.leopedia.io/DQmWQ2ybbfAiwQckW6KXfzsGNSDSnnJ48Dq3QpXyZHLGZd1/jr-korpa-tzQkuviIuHU-unsplash.jpg
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Rushing, these chemical forces veiled
through the curvature of these tiny, tiny fleshes,
flowing and moving,
seeking a kind of retribution.
Although the mind speaks,
and in its speaking
the lucidity of the syringe
becomes the only honest thing left in the room.

I used to fear what I might become.
Now I sit across from it at the table
and pour it another glass.
It doesn't ask permission anymore.
It just walks through me
like a hallway it has always owned.

Somewhere under all this smoke
there is a version of me
that still remembers sunlight,
that still remembers
not needing anything
to feel like a person.

I am looking for her.
I keep looking.

Posted Using INLEO