I don’t fuck with that shit anymore. Grimy ass human waste, waste away like some kind of drug ending in -dine that You prescribed to my schizophrenic aesthetic. You said it was good, tasted like cotton candy and rainbows. The only bow strung here was my veins, played me like a harp and watched my swan song with cold water embracing me all the way to the hospital where You work at. Not worked.
Emergency, emergency, my heart stopped and the paddles of life don’t bring me any closer to the shoreline. White sands with picturesque bottles in a standstill, sand still lining up for You to line your pockets. It’s not dirty if it’s white, some bullshit excuse You probably mumbled as I passed You by, stretcher bound to be cut up like some frog. Shit man, I know I’m French but only the Canadian kind.
Your a snake sounds too cliche, so instead, I’ll twist it like a bottle and send the cap flying straight towards your roaches ass. Even though I didn’t survive the nuclear meltdown You sure as hell did. Was it because You were really that hardy? Or was it because You didn’t sample what You were pushing over the counter? Nah, that can’t be true. After all, You fucked me over it.
I wish I were a realist. Someone who could’ve seen it how it is. Like when I saw birds flying high I could realize they were probably just going to crap on my car rather than wonder at how they must be really enjoying that high.
I wish You were an optimist. Maybe that way You could’ve looked at me and given me the courage of a lion instead of letting your little friends flock to me like flies. I had to eat them all, I was a frog, wasn’t I?
Where was the care for this health? I’m asking You now because holy shitake mushrooms, those didn’t sit well under my watch. I shook and scattered and shook some more, had a seizure, got married, sexed in the bed, and made another me for the same white coat roach You to look after once the two in bed find nice mahogany to lay in.
I always loved mahogany. Fine wood, classy in style and texture. Matched well with velvet, but You never had the style to tell. You always would wear the same stuff when I saw You. I would at least change it up each time. First time I & You met I wore a nice magenta button-up with a pair of snazzy khaki. You looked pleased, but I saw something in your eyes. I figured You didn’t like my clothes so after You sent me on my way, my little white slip in hand, I decided next time I’d show You I’m not so posh and proper.
A torn-up bloodstained hoodie with some macho sports team logo on the front with some jeans screaming, ‘got this fish hooked’. This time You looked with such pity as if I’d just fucked up at a spelling bee, but your eyes told me You expected this. I’m not dumb, I’m dead. I know how to spell Sackler.