My brain is a carnivalistic hall of mirrors.

Tall, lanky reflections point their fingers and laugh

At the short, round goblins that scurry

In fluorescent lighting—

I memorized the linoleum floors

And stoic boxiness of my quarters—

Counting the veins in my eyelids

Every fifteen minutes.

Like if I didn’t want to meet Death for cocktails,

I wouldn’t find a way out—

But I’m so doped up,

My post-lobotomy wandering in a cul-de-sac of madness—

I think I am a god—

Just for my disciples to forget my name.