Silently striped with streetlight window painting, I stand near my borrowed bed and stare at the nearsighted fuzz of solid objects around me. I see my future laid out in tea leaves, hazy and steeped in green cough syrup. My finger swirls liquid and I drink before answers dare to show themselves. I am released from the harness of consciousness into free fall.
I run through traffic and stop in the center of 90th and State, an intersection amphitheater for this typical tragedy. I face twenty lanes of traffic but need just one open window, one purple striped painting that I will cling to and consume exhaust until my oxygen is replaced. I trail behind as body and asphalt meet and explode, sparks of spine littering the eastward climb toward somewhere.
I lay alone, lips melted onto metal, and breathe a forgotten pixie scent mixed with poison. I let lenses settle over my eyes and there are no objects, just familiar outlines. Veins like interstates, I will follow as far as my lungs allow.
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