I am sick
The sky is green
My stomach turns inside out
Your words are yellow
I can't avoid them
My skin is orange
My eyes are black
Black like I'm wearing shades but I'm not
It's black like a rotting banana that's leaving a smell
Attracting attention
I'm chain smoking through days
Not liking the taste
Coughing up deconstruction
Collapsed stomach and lungs
I'm sick because
I'm unravelling like a golden thread
Like a tent full of birds
Until there's nothing but purple left
Hands wave from a train I need to be on
To stain me velvet red
To mix me yellow
And to dye me brown
Like they want to plant a garden in my fingertips
And write a novel on my skin
About strangers and fumbling for wrists to hold like the world is empty
Hands that make you fall from your graces
About walking into a bar and finding God
About sunshine falling from the gaps between teeth