Psychosis

The drift—

slow,

almost imperceptible 

slide from everyday

into insanity.

•

Not a leap

over the edge.

No,

I’m perfectly still.

•

Every thought,

a prophecy, 

Every glance,

full of revelation. 

•

Meaning pouring in, 

thick and golden, 

until I’m drowning in importance.

•

The veil lifted,

and there it is: 

the source code 

of everything.

•

Every coincidence,

every silence 

pregnant with intent.

•

Chosen, 

finally 

and viscerally so.

•

Summoning ambulances,

squad cars,

with sirens.

•

A simple crime,

letting mask slip.

•

Sirens,

polite at first.

Distant 

and courteous.

•

Like a neighbor

asking “are you okay?”

•

Then closer.

Red and blue

pulsing through the blinds.

•

While I sit,

in silence

on the couch

that has held 

all the versions of me.

•

They come,

asking questions.

•

I speak in short, 

correct sentences.

Calm.

Cool.

Cooperative.

•

Yet,

still sliding,

further

of my own volition.

•

I don’t resist.

How could I?

The slide is mine,

but they claim it as theirs.

•

Captured now—

not with cuffs,

but with the soft efficiency

of white coats.

•

Into the ambulance,

strapped gentle but firm.

•

At the ward,

more questions.

I answer the same:

short,

correct.

•

They hear echoes

of the messages

I never meant to send.

•

The needle comes quietly—

a kiss on the cheek,

then another one.

•

Volition dissolves first.

Then curiosity.

Then the odd version of me

on the couch.

•

No bliss here.

Just oblivion—

forced,

clinical.

•

A chemical curtain

drawn over the window.

•

They call it help.

I call it nothing,

because soon

there is no I

to call it anything.

•

Fading away.

Medicated.

Gone.