I never want to feel
my **** rubbing through a pile of broken tree branches
or the thought of dead leaves
piling up on my abdomen
only you can tell me
how it really is, to be covered in moss
to be covered in death
sprouting mushrooms from your molars
I want to hold something
feel it grow inside me, nurture it and spill
out into the wide expanse of nothingness
a false sea
a lonely planet
a fading ghost
and scream into the laughing pit
the empty chasm of anger and self-loathing
baaing in insignificance and hollow
with my chest nearly exploding
I find the words:
I am here and I will die and nothing matters and it is terrifying
just send me a W-2
let's do it all again, next year