Clutter

It's happening again. The constant mutter in my mind, the dancing tremble down my spine. The replication and dismantilation of my life, from another point of view. Is it happening again? Did it stop? Or did I stop noticing until now? My mind is shot. My mind is sharp. My mind darts, around a room, around a space I can't seem to place. Maybe it's a memory, a dream, real life? What is real anymore? Am I real? It sounds crazy maybe far-fetched but I question it sometimes. Am I alive? Is this life? Is this the last 10 seconds of my life where I see everything flash by quickly but slow at the same time? Am I a dream? When reality is a thin line you jump rope with, it all bends together into a fucked up sculpture. When a touch in the dark alone feels the same as a touch of the one you call home do you tremble? When the touch in the dark makes you remember the touch within your parts, do you cry? Does it make you die every time the breath lingers on your neck? Can you smell your past? Like a recipe you can't remember do you taste the innocence? Does the rush of first blood salivate at your lips? Can you pull out, like the thread that tames you? Will you remember which side of the line you were on when you get there?