My stomach is churning butter.

I carry the weight of my,

Existence on broken arms.

The air is a cloud of toxic smoke

That forcibly engulfs

Me in a blanket of haze.

It plays with my mind. Until it spins like a top and

Becomes like a bowling ball thrown at crystal.


A million hollow pieces.

Scramble to get far, far away.

Until I am teetering on one foot atop a flagpole

Where the cold winds are hardwearing

And I slowly freeze from the inside out.

Icicles form around my lungs.

Soon my soul will die inside my chest

And I will, too, become as the crystal.


                        Into a million hollow pieces.