Woodwork

The first time I ever dropped acid,
I saw my DNA intertwine
With the roses of the wallpaper
While sitting on the commode.

I lost myself in the pinstripes
Of dining room walls
Running infinitely, upward,
In binary code.

I died in the wooden paneling.
Reborn in the dark circles of white oak,
Opened and closed and opened again,
Like mouths swallowing themselves whole.

8-bit deaths on the Nintendo-64
Induced a nauseating anxiety, and
I melted like a warm chocolate bar
Onto the faux-suede furniture,
Reduced to dilated pupils and contemplation.

The 30-foot pines across the street
Were the synapses of my brain,
Lapping at the emerald pond water,
Strobing against the blank, aubergine sky.
My neurons, neon signs in the abyss.

We begged him not to open the door,
Panicked and told him it was a bad idea.
It was safer inside, but
I’m glad he didn’t listen.

His absence stitched together our mind-spaces
With the same needle it pricked us with.
I could see our mutual thoughts
Inflating, floating, popping like soap bubbles.

When his energy left us,
The roof flew off of our mind
Like a windswept hat, and
He got lost in the woodwork, too.

(Revision #2 – 10/10/2017)

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