In Which My Mind Falls Out of My head

Untitled | by Jasime Kareem-Robinson | digital art

 In Which My Mind Falls Out My Head by Juliette Leeth

and lands in dark room.  

So much like my own, but where  

blues, pinks and greens greeted me are  

blacks, grey and darker grey.  

My hands scramble to find color,  

I fall further when I can’t see one.  

I search the room and my foot touches an abandoned item.  

A half-stuffed pig with fraying whiskers and hard eyes.  

When I touch him with my hand, the colorlessness cracks.  

Jagged fractures emerge from my hand and grow.  

The fractures stretch, and where they connect  

they diverge.  

The blackness crumbles, shedding like old wallpaper and disintegrates.  The room from opaque to translucency.  

A muddy clear color.  

To see the light but not the object.  

I cannot tell if this is better than darkness.  

The Sun comes and hits the room.  

Rainbows bounce, dancing along my bed and dresser.  

I tip my head back, close my eyes and let the rainbows flit across me.  But the Sun wanes and the rainbows tire.  

I walk to the wall. I can see it now, not a shrouded figment.  

Rainbows faintly jump and twist inside my room, enticing me. But a figure appears on the outside of the wall.  

I walk and we meet with a translucent wall slotted between us. I put my hand 

against the wall. Her swirly fingerprints match mine.  

She is me. I am you.  

My fingers curl, my nails leaving short streaks in the translucent glass.  

Rainbows rush in to fill it.  

Yours do not curl. Your faces mirrors mine but your eyes do not.  

I bang on the glass, eyes widening.  

You touch the glass, eyes blank.  

My mouth opens but my throat doesn’t work.  

 Yours does.  

My banging turns frantic — I pound on translucency.  

My knuckles tear, skin turned white and wounded. Blood  

stains the translucent wall. It is something both of us can see.  

The rainbows come back and I punch them away.  

You frown at the mess. Kiss it,  

but turn away all the same.