unconcious

unconscious. I’m not who you think I am I’m past the gate pushing beyond the green fields and the golden stalks I’m falling down, down like glassy raindrops and dead hair from the angels I won’t remember this in the morning as he hands me the drink I plunge underwater in alcohol around the wave I catch a glimpse of a porpoise, slow and sleepy in its niche under the muddy silt dirt seeps under my fingernails smelling like daffodils in the springtime is awakening from its hibernation with open eyes and stretching arms reaching for the sun the envelope lies expectantly on the countertop crisp and white like the glass mosaic tiles when the rusty knife stabs the raw meat, cherry red with life after death I’m cannibalistic as I write in blood on the mirror tell me the memories I should keep forever in the pages of my heart.