Blithe Velvet Delusion

It’s to The Mars Volta—and when I feel like there’s no light left in me.
I still smoke Djarum Black cloves in the house anyway.
I blow smoke up at the ceiling and look over at my Frances the Mute poster.
I want to pull a red velvet bag over my own head.
I want to obscure my vision until—

I’m blithely unaware of my own velvet delusion.
I have a poetry-escape addiction.
I can’t control my compulsion.
I won’t stop until I’m satisfied,
because it’s the middle of the night and I should be sleeping
because maybe this music montage doesn’t matter

if the past is immutable and—
I always lose my accent in the future.