there is something disgusting stuck in my throat.
the dogs are barking. i gnaw on the joints of my hands to the
beat of their dissonance; this is what got me sick in the first place.
me and my butterfly wings,
my butterfly knife and my
butterfly rash.
winter is always diseased.
i just want to be left alone yet i swell and secede,
i urge and i can't keep ignoring,
this death will be the death of me.
i hate me