I am awake, but I disassociate.
I read something, somewhere, once –
that it’s a common symptom of the BPD
an affliction that just comes upon me
to act without thought or intent,
and replay the movie later in my head
– it’s a crime scene, waiting to be undressed
to piece it all together and make sense of the mess.

The hand quivers, the fingers numb –
clenched to the steering wheel
the colour of concentration,
his thumb taps ever-so-timely
now a long-forgotten song.
a talent so lovingly pruned
here, now, it seeks the muse
and to be the muse
of the man with the fingers;
dripping with paint
and oh those baby-blues
with light refracting heart-snare
step into the vortices
and take me,
take me there.