there's rotting fruit- in my room
over-ripened flesh dancing in my vision
gone bad too soon- bursting spores and warm juices
summer scorches and syrup bubbles
sticky vapors clinging to my skin
wish I could peel myself from this rotting flesh
I can't help but watch the molding tree wither
should have many years but here we are
it smells of sweet decay- I can't prevent
thin membrane pierced with a touch
if you gulp it down- your stomach will turn from within
wash it from my hands but it's already inside
wish I could douse myself in bleach
I've poisoned myself too many times before