how many times have i been so acquainted with the ground
gravel filling up my throat
stuffing these useless words back into that deep dark somewhere
where everything dies and nothing grows
a fever that's been killing me for days
my brain hot with over-thoughts
a pain that's been killing me for years
a scalpel in the back is nice and steady
but the knife that you hold is red and rusty
i have many scars but none have hurt
as much as yours
death would be nicer
even death would be much nicer