A year, it's been a year.

I promised I would not **** ants
anymore but I just killed them yet again.
My fingers smell like insects and

ammonia in bathroom.
It's just that I haven't died in such

a long time,
daisy, promise me that you will

write about me
on a public bathroom wall
with your wife's grape lipstick.
Buy her one, she would not want to use

the blood-red-from-my-vessels one, but please
tell her
to use the baby cologne I

can buy at the minimarket.