Back To Myself

I'm not just interested in the accident,
the bitter aftertaste, the cacophony of gunshots
still echoing and keeping me awake:
I know I must piece together
the busted window, which is me,
the scraps of paper that hold
the ink-blood of my story.

When I scream, I scream for morphine,
nepenthe, sweet, sweet narcosis:
enough! I must stay awake,
walk the long, low-lit road
back to myself.