It's Interactive!

An unopened book. Open it. Whoa!
Words appear and interact
with your imagination, slapping
the tonsils inside your skull. You
can jump back, shrieking, slam it
shut, chuck it into the trash flaps
in the other half of the room–
which you didn't know was another
half until now, just one giant tiny
space your bed takes half of,
there's half again, this lazy
approximation of your ancestry
and you can clench your fist,
punch your forehead yelling
stupid! stupid! then ask
why am I calling you stupid?
You being me being you,
first and second comingling,
and you can shriek again
but that would make you
punch your sack of skull
moaning stupid! stupid!
and you don't want that,
I don't want anything
but it's impossible–
frog bottles singing choruses
on top of the fridge to clear
your brain, blank slate, glass
behind the cabinet door
you can pull open,
it's interactive, spin around
to face the giant window–
stare at glass 'til dark
or three sock-steps to peer
through. How to see
past the tree? These leaves
obfuscate everything:
blue sky and concrete.
To interact you must be
wind or chainsaw or both
and you spent too much
time in this building
when you were sad,
when I wanted escape.
The door was always
unlocked, I just had
to lift the comforter
from my body in
the early morning,
twist the knob,
and rip open the chest,
my life in a surgery
of senses.