bed sore

she’s been sitting here for days, don’t you know? she’s been waiting on the future to carry her away. with its bleach-scented smile, and its spandex cape. but no matter how long she’s waited, it never really came.

as her skin turned decrepit, and paper-thin, and the bubble bust years ago. so she now watches from the window, as the sky goes cold, and laughs a little ’cause it’s funny, if you think about it.

how we whisper horror stories under the covers at night; mine ourselves like coal, burn hope for fuel and go up in smoke, just like that. she comes up with solutions in her mind, sharp and misshapen, and scraps them on sight.

maybe she’s in shock. maybe she’s dying slowly, because to this day she can’t bring herself to step outside in fear, that the grass won’t be greener on the other side; that utopia tastes better before you feel its gnawing kiss. but i don’t mind.

’cause i can only write poetry with half-closed eyes. like it’s a last resort. my mottled, fading words dying of bed sores and bruises. they fester, and they rot, yeah they’re gonna eating me alive, but what am i supposed to do?

because the only people left now are me and you.

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