spent.
you groan.
you deplore the feeling of trying
only the smallest amount more than you deplore
staying still.
spills.
the clutter.
the mess, it gets the best of you each and every time,
it rhymes with destruction
that suction of the blackhole
that has become your home.
spread.
across beds.
you're only a little sliver and you stretch your arms wide
to cover everything your pride
will allow you to, and you dry-heave
and **, in your emaciated pose,
you're thin but...
spry.
limber, even.
you've got some years ahead of you.
your bones only ache as much as you brought them to.
your vision is clear and reading hasn't taken much from you.
those two portals to a weary soul
help you carry a stance with promise.
they'll make you speak.