107

It’s wide-eyed sleepwalking. Cotton ball 
brain. A drunk walk home stone-cold 
sober. Dust collecting on a spinning  
ceiling fan. You’re a robot wearing  
human skin, clouded eyes and  
automated dances. A puppeteer pulling  
their own strings. Pressing the big  
red button. 
 
(Where did it even come from?) 
 
You’re hammering at a blacked-out  
window, hearing voices on 
the other side. A one-way  
mirror. High-pitched ringing singing 
a lullaby. Elevator music looping from the phone 
hanging unanswered 
by its cord. 
 
(Who’s even calling?) 
 
It’s floating suspended  
under water. I Know The End’s guttural  
scream fallen silent on silly straw ears. The clicks  
of a clock still ticking without batteries. 
 
(How is time still moving?) 
 
You’re a house fire— the home, 
the lit match, and 
the witness watching it. 
Inhale the ash— your own exhale— 
and blow out clouds, 
covering the sky in a foggy blanket.

Eliza Surdzial

Apology for a Dissociative State of Mind