Entry 43

“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.

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