What is maintenance? My life has to be cold, planned, full of calculation. Otherwise, what? Otherwise, I'll be old at thirty-five, bold, but too close
to a tragic slip, toes in the grass by open graves, when peers gather, grow on pavement past the gates. My life has to be cold, planned, full of calculation.
Otherwise, the most vital, underlying systems yell in warning lights, compromised. You may not think it problematic, but I can't interpret signs of my demise already six feet down,
now can I? That's why I (we): clean, sort, scrub, update outdated thoughts, as if otherwise, I (we) cut the years I'll (we'll) survive.
Open my chest for me, you, lovely human you. Your scent rises through the rain. Could I live the way you live, I would. But I can't, and I know that. So let me react to your input,