shut

there's illness rioting within me.
disease spreads its fingers, a violent choke
are my vital signs so vital?

i could've been fooled
and
i was.

the waves of nausea clash with the narcissism
and the drugs don't make it better
the drugs are the sickness, the sickness is the drug

'baby, you're being morbid'
naw, i'm being human
i'm shivering with self-restraint, shivering with the subtle way
you hold your hands
over me
me, an untouchable

WHY THE FUCK WON'T YOU JUST TOUCH ME (?!?!?!)

the deathbed floating hands
they're just favors
they're tie-overs
its a waiting game in the waiting room
and i'm sorry
i'm sorry i'm wasting your time.

i look out the window. i don't see any leaves, come to think of it, i don't remember ever having actually looked for leaves before, but now i am, and there aren't any, and is it winter, is that why? i don't think so. prayer beads block my view. i don't remember leaves, but i especially don't remember praying, what if i had, would there still be a mess on the floor and in my veins and outside my ice-cubed window? shut the book, i'm cold. i'll be even colder to you.

you're just waiting.
tapping.
smoking.
actually, i wish you'd smoke. you just sit there, jittering.
tapping.
waiting.

never crying.
never once crying.

i'm not one of those people your mother would ever want you to cry over
even with my eyes glued shut and no one to love.

shut the book.