Hate me. Why not take an arm off? Maybe my arm's already gone and missing. Maybe tonight's the night I won't wake from sleeping. Shame as pestilence incarnate rakes my beating heart and brain. Nails as sharp as shards of memory. I ingest the scent of corpses in a cold storage adorned with limbs and organs, underneath the floor of that burned out/burned in periphery beneath the rain.
Sprang up again, arose in sweat, toward the toilet. Some things never change. Will this never change?
Hard jobs **** up my night, and I can't rest in day. Hard jobs **** up my day, and I can't rest through night, but I cannot stay awake. What came before comes now, becomes the future, turning loops. The present keeps pace steady, only to slide the Earth below me to prove