i dont want to live til im 30

today, im sick.

tomorrow, im sick.

the next day? sick

yesterday? i was sick.

sick.

boohoo.

im sick.

dont come near me.

marinating in the shit

to gain an unique flavor profile,

i dont want to be touched.

or loved.

or have a conversation.

or babies.

i want to be like that

dead kitten, skull

crushed 

and 

sizzling

in the middle of 

the street

covered in 

a buzz of 

flies,

lapping up whatever

nutrition they can

from

the rotting body.

ew.

im sick.

but you're sick too.

don't you realize it?

it's what happened after

you and i were born.

but we can never be sick 

together.

so we lie in cigarette butts,

dirty dishes,

glass,

used needles,

fingerprints,

discarded tumors,

unspoken words,

dishonesty,

and darkness.

with blank minds,

and our backs turned;

two sets of eyes 

facing opposite walls.

im sick.

you're sick.
the times are sick.

it's hard to move,

but impossible to

fall asleep.

the moon is not 

our mother,

neither is the sun.

the shit is starting 

to pile up,

and you're afraid 

we will drown;

im afraid we might

learn how to swim
and save ourselves.

sick 

sick 

sick

so fucking sick.

sick of you.

sick of me.

sick from life.

i run my nails

down resurrected

veins and feel

excited but,

even more alone,

because there is 

no cure.

there are only decisions

and circumstances

that we mix 

together

in a blender,

and call existence.

i laugh,

and 

you say,

"it's not funny."

even though,

being alive totally is

in that sadistic kind

of way.

sick.
the future's sick.

im sick.

you're gone.

oh well.

it was expected.

the cross 

i will be crucified

on will not be made

of used works, dried blood,

and hiv.

no, my cross will

be made by illuminated letters

from the signs of fast food chains,

a.a./n.a. meetings,

boredom,

the low fuel light on my dashboard,

and name brand plastic shopping bags

filled with useless shit that means 

something to someone

who isn't me.

everything held together

with masking tape, saliva,

and pieces of my brain.

why eat healthy

when the end is

always so

fucking 

predictable?