I don't have a medical sickness. I just want to throw up at your face. I just want to **** the lead out of a thermometer to poison my vital organs slowly. I just want to crack my head open to see if it's hollow or not; to see how millions of bland thoughts made its way inside my skull. I just want to scream at your ears As if I'm being cauterized... Or amputated... Or flayed by a demented surgeon- As if strapped on a rusty hospital bed, In a grimy and abandoned hospital building...
I just want to look at my blood sample under the microscope to make sure it's not crawling with little red demons. I just want to throw this bowl of hot soup at your paper-gowned skin when you come to check on me... If I'm still worth reviving, Or if I'm still worth killing, Or if I'm still even worth gazing at.
I just want to lie in bed all day- Feeling like a boiled carrot; Feeling like a wet dog drooling away under the merciless sun; Or a creature with no bones. Feeling like a wilted flower, lost of all its glory...
I just want to stuff my mouth with so many pills and prescriptions, And pretend to like the idea of dying, self-induced. I just want to sweat this fever out.