maybe it is, maybe it isn't
i don't know.
i don't fucking know,
alright?
too much, just way too
much. everything.
the money the
food the
rent the
bird shit
on my car
the phone calls
i never make
the disappointed faces
the pretending
the pretending
stop
fucking
pretending.
pretend to be
alive, if anything.
with uranium poisoning
and nothing but
hours
minutes
breaths
bowel movements
separating YOU
from IT.
and you can smell
the stench,
taste blood as you exit swiftly
through the front door.
it was there
ever since
the very
first
day.
it takes death
to produce life,
and a mind
to produce death.
good morning?
maybe.