Books
Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
Illness
Inside the asylum, brown walls.
Deserted, but warm.
Hollow and echoes.
The old cleaner comes, flesh rotting.
I hit her with a shoe.
Hit her head. Out,
and slam the door.
Awake in a sweat.
A fever once more.
Pain in my throat and ears,
itching inside,
The place where my illness likes to hide.
Throat dry, on the left.
Swallowing rough.
Eight months of fevers each week.
Had enough.
|
