PSYCHEOSIS 3:37 A.M.- 3:37 C.E.
by Rose Knapp

Where do the hallucinations end and I begin? Where do the hallucinations end and you all begin? Where do I end and you all begin? Same breaths, same limbs, same visions, same hallucinations. I honestly can’t tell you that what I’m doing and typing right now is any more real than those times I was being hallowed in heaven or being devoured by demons in hell or when my microwave wouldn’t stop beeping even after I smashed it into oblivion with a sludge hammer to make it stop. But don’t worry, don’t be alarmed now avoidant and passive-aggressively frightened family, don’t worry flaky friends, don’t worry splintered fascist and puritan society, you may have lost me and I may have lost you too, we have lost each other but we have gained new possible worlds! They have been unfurled before you in blood, hatred, and fear. I anxiously wipe away the last of the red ink stained tears. More opium trite bullshit, like Frost and strict forms. We thrash our laptop over the ledge. I crash to the floor, instinctively curling into the fetal position. I spy out of my dry raw eyes an old gold wedding ring. It looks familiar; its sight triggers screeching memories that still crawl inside me. Time does not heal adequately.

Minutes? Hours? Days? How long? It does not matter, you are strong. Weekly strong. The tears are spent but the same hatreds and doubts remain. The same old voices whispering in your brain: insane insane insane. Lifting your hand off the dusty abandoned warehouse floor; how did I get here, it doesn’t matter. Was it all worth it, the suffering for beauty, the high aesthetics, the prose and poetics, the chance at a more lasting immortality? But you don’t even want immortality. Things would be better off if you weren’t around you know, you’re a huge burden to your family, to your friends, to all of society. There are plenty of sane artists to write fake whitewashed sonnet meditations on dog food, they don’t need another batshit one! I banish them on borrowed time, the voices, the visions, the doubts, the fears. Suppress them with vodka, beer, and ketamine. Anxiety is a drug too, and it’s great for weight loss. I know the nonexistent debt collectors could come to collect unexpectedly at any time. Repress it, whatever it is, again and again, with those beautiful terrible words: I only want perfection, which must include imperfection.


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