you
are a porcelain chair
delicately crafted
by artisans,
affixed in the center
of an otherwise-empty ballroom

you have never felt more calm than you do right now

coated in a shell of donut-glaze
everything feels clear
edges are sharp, but polite
time is a viscous liquid
oozing from the walls

you hear a sound
gentle, like paint
being peeled from the ceiling;
you are not alone
forming above you
is a spiderweb-shaped
series of fractures
you hear the sound again
louder, this time
the ceiling succumbs to decades of tension
as the chandelier 
plummets to earth

time slows down
moments before misfortune
the needle-thin point
at the base of the chandelier
hits first
the pattern on your body
matches that of the ceiling
as the fixture’s full weight is upon you
your legs burst
shards of porcelain scatter across the marble floor
your top half follows
splits into a slew of unsalvageable pieces
suddenly
you are viewing the world
from every perspective imaginable
you feel omnipotent
and paralyzed
able to see everything
unable to act on anything
the pain
is that of a quintillion paper-cuts
brimming with lemonade;
the sour burn of it all, radiates through you
time becomes humid
condensation forms on your porcelain skin
the drops are bright, and sting
the liquid of time
ambles down to the floor
the burning persists as you wait
the room begins to fill with liquid
the remaining fragments of your body
rise with the water
spill out through cracks in the walls
and scatter