Hotel

The shadows teetering beneath your eyes have sparked up quivering glitter fragments in my peripheral vision.
I'm holding on tightly to the clammy ceramic sink
and staring down the hole in the centre,
watching water washing down beside coagulated structures and metro stations.
It's taken easily.
My acidic muscles refuse to stand up, the ground is moving too fast but the stuttering furniture is tempting.
I rise and fall, rise and fall, rise,
collapse, towards an atmosphere empty of oxygen-
oh god, get me off this soft, pale planet! It is too close to my own reflection and I am unable to see clearly, my vision is lopsided-
please, undeniable deity of desperation seize my splintering bones and break them cleanly,
stack them neatly and create a secret garden for mannequins to stand and creak in.
It can be homage to my pathetic existence.
I wish the wind would whistle through me like it does you.
Surely my body has simply become too tight, too secure a cage for such force;
anger and rage creating visions which pulse through my cavities and make me convulse, froth, writhe, expire,
at least for as long as it takes. As long as it takes for whichever fuck dragonness that brought me in to bring me back,
screaming and asking for goldilocks to save me, just to see if I'm the right size.
I know the answer before the breath is drawn.