When the demons of December’s midnight oil field start ripping at my eyeballs from the inside making tears fall despite the blissful fledglings taking flight outside my window
When the horror cherry cupcake frogs into my throat, starts twisting the tubes so no air can enter and no fear can sigh out, when the smirking soprano spatula blasts buttercup frosting down the channels of my ears until they leak wax and wordless noise
When the dirt under my fingernails turns viral, crumbling my hands to ash so I can’t stop the dragon from coming and pinching and turning Atlas on his head, when the whole world rolls into a dingy corner for the eight-eyed xenophobes to suck the ocean’s blood, when everything is worse than any word that has never been coined to describe this toxic vaseline that twists the dial on my compass inward, down
That’s when I look to you
and I hope to God you are there.