In Glass Bottles Dwell Galaxies

that blast the brain out of my head like a rocket

from the launchpad sitting in my skull,

to a time warp far from the confines of this house

where I can blissfully float between stars,

suspending consciousness

to create a mind as empty as its surroundings:

this vacuum that reeks of moonshine,

full of silence that bends sound like water.

What happens to a human body in the emptiness of space?

Frost coats my eyes,

this cosmic poison seeps into my liver.

My body implodes.

As my heart contracts, it caves inwards,

sucks plasma from my veins,

bursts blood cells,

unravels intestines.

Collapsing lungs force a sharp exhale from my icy blue lips,

and the remnants of my body,

not built to float in the contents of those glass bottles in which

dwelled galaxies,

dissipate into

my bedroom floor.