When I squeeze out the contents like I'm a citrus reamer
Are the heavy notions of death meant to be?
According to the book I cut my apples into eights
Will someone tell me how long my death will take?

I wait to be transparently flat like the morning sun.
Is it meant to be when I'm still as fat as an out of date plum?
My life was meant to be pulled away a long time ago
But the hoover broke and so never cleansed me of kilos.

Is it meant to be that I will forever breathe the air of my house?
The sickening fumes often feel like family when starvation has clout.
It's common knowledge that a girl leads you, tells you how.
The only thing I have is a pen and a useless body now.