you too have choler

Sick of this plastic bag in this fuckin' dank orchard of onyx decay, the callous worms and perfumed maggots swimming through my gutted canals. People, the living, breathing blots of toxic orchids, the heart-shaped faces of owls.

Lonely, you're all like swept clovers on the porch, the rotten mulch and sodden wood planks, raw red feet and dirty toes. Cedar chips and caramel shavings, flowered petals and rotten blooms on the ceiling, a dull ache in my chest cavity, the reflecting echo of lilac and poisoned dandelions in the breeze. Black soil on the rough texture of blistered burlap, silver duct tape on my severed hands, sweltering droplets of pristine moisture, a river of florid marrow in this hefty garbage bag, yellow drawstring, outside an unspeakable-untouched beauty, deathless and blanched with milk thistle.