A Month

A month of death.

The thick-tongued mouthfeel, dropping
yr shit for work, for what you think
is play is work & regress. Dark mirror
in the bathroom with the ladder out
you could climb & lock the window at the end
of the night. Nothing to those you're
giving favors.

A month
closer to April, and farther from

wake & it's sunshining & care not.
Fear, the ladder in
eschewed light is killing your plant. 3pm
loneliness spent sleeping & screentime.



A month
of falldown drunk.



Promises, plans wayside set
to the decay of yr organs. Fear nightclub
talk. Fear the 3pm alarum. Fear,
with all good intentions, you're a mere
selfish act. yr martyrdom that nobody sees.
Panic of long sleep, waking every third
minute, fear you've missed the way out.

A month,
A month of,