It’s dark green, or maybe silver.

It singes holes in my chest 

from its chambers in my brain, 

 

when Right and Wrong 

seem just like letters

strung arbitrarily along.

 

It tugs me under, 

melts me into the milky nuances

that bubble in between the lines.

 

I’ve sunk so deep that I’ve lost sight 

of the page above, the one tattooed 

with rule-bound words. The syntaxed corset

 

that once bound me so tightly. 

So is it so bad–or is it freeing–

that my own binding is now fraying?

 

Floating in liquid limbo I wonder,

drifting further from the page,

who wrote this book, anyway?