Salted, flimsy orange rinds, bittered instead of sweetened: these are all I eat nowadays.
Crystalline textures coat my insides, my blood pressureβs at an all-time high, and my tensions are shooting through the roof. By god, Iβm so naΓ―ve, So untouched by anything other than this, it seems unlikely that I would taste such saccharine things, Iβd be much more inclined to shrivel up my insides, dehydrate all my limbs and pack them like raw meat in a harsh winter.
I feel useless again.
this poem might as well be the poem wilted's long lost cousin