and this is illness.

it lay there on it’s fine china, in all it’s glutton and calls me a whore and tells me to thank him when I die.

it stares at me waiting. and when i choke and can’t breath, it laughs it’s belly laugh.

and then night comes and God is gone and voices are left unheard.

because sin breaks the telephone cord.

in darkness it growls at me.
laps up my blood with all its lust.

and then bones show and pictures cant lie.
and im not doing this on purpose
but i cant seem to get my fingers around the handle right.

i read and read and some say its lack of blood flow to certain regions of the brain.
and then i pray and hope that maybe this is true.
with truth comes cures

that maybe this isnt something forever.

i paint my nails just to pick the polish off.
just to keep my hands doing something.

[ this is illness. ]

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