the crooked knife

I feel sick, and dirty, and broken, and dying, hurting, and tired, and beaten, and used.

There is a reason I've lived the way I have for 19 years, and changing that up brings no good. I just want to curl up in a ball in my bed and not come out for days. Just sleep and sleep and sleep and forget that I have work to be done and forget that I have people to care about and forget that I have to keep moving.

Ripped and wretched,
the dog returns to its vomit
and pigs delight in their shit

and I have rubbed my nose
in the refuse of my apathy
stumbling to hold onto something
that doesn't falter or reek

i have spit in your love
smeared your named across my bare and vulgar body
and kicked and swung and flung myself
in anger to get away from you.

and you washed away the spit
and gently cleaned the nakedness
and held me so tight to your breast
i could not get away, i could not run away


But I'm not convinced, because even if I can't see it anymore, I still smell the shit.