Not Mine

These hands are not mine

anymore,

turning slowly blue,

their insides throbbing

and pained.

Electrified meat, silently buzzing

nervous system alight,

follow the traffic,

no choice now but to

follow the traffic,

the destination unknown.

No combatting,

these streets are awfully slippery,

attempts to steer away

will result in wrangled metal,

exposed springs,

burning bolts.

Hurtling

across the timeline,

the crash savoured but feared,

its taste new and exciting

as it shatters your teeth to bleeding shards

spewed across hot tarmac, sticky.

These hands

are not mine,

but I follow them regardless,

my creator has encoded

the true path to joy!

My skin crawls with its pains,

stitched and sutured,

barely held together,

weak hands trembling

when I write down my name,

my name or yours

I cannot tell anymore.

What is the difference

between what helps and what hurts now?

What heals and what hinders

in a world where a joy births a pain

and a pain rebirths itself,

pain eating its own offspring,

catching its own tail,

the viscera a visual

I’m bound to hold tight.

Each night

a nightmare,

sleeping pattern jagged,

the cool breeze like wheezing breath

from something unseen.

I can’t see it yet,

but I just know that something’s coming

attempts to run

lead to my stomach

the deepest pit

acidic

caustic

venomous.

These are not my hands,

thick blue veins,

burning nerves

controlling skeletal fingers

which dig through flesh, searching,

for bodily peace.

The timeline rushes on,

it is too late

to be saved

and the sound of the rainfall

feels like an ancient warning,

alarm bells ringing

deep inside my spirit.

You can prepare the ark

but you should know about the icebergs

too,

a blind higher power

choosing the worst path

just for you.