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.
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.
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.
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?
