Finally, shaking inside, you pulled me off the floor. Resentful, your core was always a furnace, full of pale sulfur. The room is blood red and dark yellow. You grabbed my arm (“thank you”). The luminous green Insect has not yet entered. Tripping over scattered objects, lights with great hallows push me down the stairs through your essence and IT and into the car. “The man had seemed to be made of stone!” Fucking food poisoning, and I, the more masculine side, made you drive: “Just shoot straight through this traffic,” I ordered. “Border patrol protects you from invaders even as the sickness circulates within you right now; but what about me?” There was once an attempt, a kinda rocky escape, which tamed me. “If possible,” you shout out, “it is very hard to continue to jibber jabber with you.” You radiate and you hate with spiked, orange, cutting slices on your back, and on your neck, and I suddenly see you… the Doomsday Stegosaurus. So I shout back: “Underbelly sailing dreams are pulling you apart!” But you got real. I didn’t understand before. Pissed off, you tell me to “shut it”. How hard it is to see you trying to drive with me, almost sideswiping three parked cars, your body concave, bent over, your demon/mother head pressed to the wheel, while appearing to be Cassidy. “Watch out!” But you cut the narrative thread. Rooted in place, once upon a time, veins once alive like bright red ribbon sails now rest in the junkyard, behaving like hackneyed worms. You, against your will, soon to star on screen in black and white, arm coated in jellyfish. I know your selfish desire to be swallowed up by cotton candy fantasy dreamers. But sweetness rots.

Inside that place again, figures violet and blue: Hit! the large target vein, in your thumb, and Shoot, Ahab! Half-shuddering, taking the needle, shot like a harpoon into window-eye-like opening, the pulsating vein appears live, in fuzzed out black/white silence. I saw it all. You were being held captive by these black outlines, imprisoned. The gauge of the needle is meant for the arm. “NO NO NO.” Ecstasy ceases. “Try the backs of the arms first!” I yelped. Exist—only the memories, then an IV ran so you can remain. These memories are fluids. When you cussed aloud, I found myself a sailor and screamed until you resigned. I, laughing hysterically then, and like your mother, apologize for you: “Never acted like this before.” Remember your mother. Roles pulled apart by a mother by Mother are twisted like bread. I dream of strong bones, fragile rabbit. Suggest they go find your mother’s long white hair, (turn over, now for the back of your arms) growing in the coffin, braiding the noose. You, straddling two worlds, begin to flinch at the slightest sound; but the ticking of the dawning is what suppressed me. It was your clock—eyelids closing doors, pushing you away and turning knobs. I lay down next to you, heavy, saddened by grey—a passive recipient—and I whisper, “Will we self destruct?”