detache

Staring again. 
"Vacancy" flashes across my forehead in that dull-neon red. I detach my self from my body, seeping through my eye sockets and spilling out and puddling all around. Songs on shuffle are the only thing I hear. 
We hear what we want to.
 and every song is delivering a message to my cranium, which is now dripping off the bed and onto the floor.  
Questions are hard to form right now, but there are many. They most likely don't matter, or won't matter later, but this feeling is permeating. That small bit of cancer they miss in the scrape. It sits and it grows. Once it reaches your mind, game over. 

My mind is all I have, and once it's penetrated, I'm filled with a soreness that only authenticity can take away. 
Some mistakes are made, and some linger with possibility.
Do I know better than this?
© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2013