i think a lot about my ribs
and about my stomach
and my organs
and how they would look if
someone pulled them out
i think a lot about my skin
and the way it's whittled
over me.
i think a lot about my mind
and
how the next smoke will calm it
to a dull hum.
i think a lot about my weight
and my mind is heavy with
the thought.

i think about my bed and my sheets
and how they might've once
been occupied by
more than just me.
but now it's so lonely,
lonely, lonely,
like my mind, my ribcage, my weight,
my organs persisting through the poisons
i put in them.

i think too much
and i want,
want, want
too much to say.
i don't know how i got the
privilege of this prolonged
purposeless
sadness.

if i just got out
out, out
of bed and fought for once.

but it's hard when you wake up
drunk, drunk, drunk.