This fever won't break
its self.
I need--
I need
to break
away.
You are all ghosts,
slights of my psychosis,
but
it's not you.
I have to escape what I've become:
very little of my self.
I always cared what you thought of me
more than I cared what I thought--
very little of my self,
other than my hunger,
and it is that hunger,
dispassionate and weightless,
that has wounded me so.
So I must crawl into a cave,
somewhere across the continent,
to find myself to be -
tepid and sober, covered in scabs, cold-sweating -
awake, when I thought I never would be again,
if I had not left when I did.
(This is to say)
No goodbyes, you'll never see me again.