“lazy” is not vehement enough of a word
to fit my aversion toward elbow grease.
yet in sluggishness i am not satisfied.
my disposition is molasses.
i fester in sleep
and always awake to find myself stuck to the sheets
as though in the throes of a night terror.
the effort in a morning comes with constant complaint,
nagging from the reptile brain.
silencing demons requires holy conviction that i do not possess.
sadness has a weight that matches my own.
dragging my (imagined) dead clone is exhausting,
i’d rather sit and watch him rot
while i starve near death;
until my flesh becomes desiccate
and my mouth fills with caustic salt;
i will continue to print these torrid thoughts while thinning.