Pigeonshit
“I think you’re being haunted by a cat”
I joked.
Not knowing that Depression Kitty had made her skin her covert canvas,
Seducing her ever so skillfully,
mauling her with pain that was bittersweet.
“I really don’t think it matters that much”
I spoke.
Not knowing that Anxiety Boa had made her body her private perch,
Squeezing and strangling her bones into putty,
crushing her insides into mushy meat.
“You can’t kill yourself, you love them too much”
I hoped.
Not knowing that Suicidal Spiders had made her head their festering nest,
Laying egg sacs in her sulci and gyri,
Waiting to engulf, gestating to feast.
“I think we’re both equally mentally ill”
I know.
We are an infested menagerie of maladjusted brainsicknesses,
Looking for answers to “Why live?” and “Why try?”
and “Why isn’t it easier?”
and “Why is everything so expensive? ”
and “Why do pigeons shit so much? ”
and “Why am I not enough?”
and “Why doesn’t the frizz go away?”
and “Why isn’t there anyone to hug?”
and “Why is it so hot?
and ”Why am I sweating non-stop? “
and ”Why is no one here to see me cry?
and “Why is it so dark?”
and “Why am I so cold?”
and “How could I lose that dolphin necklace made of gold? ”
and “Why am I so tired?”
.
.
.
Why am I always so tired?
Meant to be read out loud
