The torturous chimes
rip me away from the purest
moment of hand holding
in the back bedroom of a volcano
dragging my brain out into the cold
alone
and on foam
and I yell at Google to let me return
and I try
but the door is closed, locked
so I go down a different path
and check out some butterflies
with the eyes of a carnival worker
with a hole in his throat
and the chimes drag me back out
and I rip all the warmth off my body
and drag myself out
into a tornado of doubts
Should I jump into the ocean first?
Should I drink the ocean first?
Should I brew in the volcanic stew?
I choose what to do
and dive into the repetitive chimes
from inside
that feel like a first floor
on repeat
but they really are elevating
at least
when I air out the doors
and resist from letting the sounds
choke me, cloud me, tear my ears apart
from inside out.