Monday, March 30, 2015

Damages

The fish died.

I think it's my fault.

My digestive system is wrecked.

Was it the booze this weekend?

Is it all my fault?

Karma?

Bulimia?

Punishment from on high?

There are 18 piles of laundry.

We should have come back earlier.

Damage.

Damage.

Roughage.

It's good for you, right?

Stupid effing laundry.

Were you expecting meaning?

You came to the wrong existence.

You came to the wrong poem.

In this one people die falling down stairs.

And you get diarrhea for three months.

Death.

Oh death.

Again you came.

Poor Dorothy.

I am pretty sure she was constipated.

And I knew.

And I didn't clean the bowl before we left (it seemed fine, I'm not a complete monster)

Gurgle.

Cramp.

Sorry guys, leftover junk food for dinner again.

Mom's on the toilet.

Spring break colonoscopy!

And this simmering worry of something sinister.

What if I have cancer?

Probably not, right?

Seems unlikely since so many people I know have had it recently. Surely not.

Ha.

As if there's rhyme.

Or reason!

Gurgle. Gurgle.

Cramp. Seizing cramp.

Can you sleep on a blanket?

The sheets still aren't washed.

Dental faxes and taxes.

Nothing waits for chronic illness.

Certainly not my bowels.

What did I eat this time?

Or is the probiotics I keep forgetting?

Damage.

More damage.

We all do damage.

But Piney told Jax that character is how we fix it.

How do I fix it?

How do I fix me?

How do I get all this laundry done?

Off to the bathroom.

Be right back.

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