My anxiety is like potions
In glass bottles
That look like popsicles
Melted, by uneven heat.
Dollops of crude, ghastly-shaped
Images, floating in its own
Mess; I could not save from

I’m trying to whisk past
Glass walls, reflecting its empty spaces,
Only to stop midway
And behold the spectacle
Of myself, fragmented.
It is hard to differentiate
Fiction from reality
When the red margins seem to blur.

I am the corpse, of a clockwork doll
That was conditioned to

And repeat.
And repeat.

Until the clockwork broke.

13 November 2016


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