What has no scent, no feel, besides the rotting remains of something lively and vibrant to this world.
I want to give it away, have someone take care of the sickly thing, but no takers appear.
I don't want it slowly, but rhythmically pulsing inside my chest.
It's contagious really, spreading disease all throughout my body.
Making my brain explore dangerous avenues, places to pawn it off to.
No buyers, no gimmick to sell it prosperously and permanently to the public eye.
Lack of consumer equals no buy.
So, here I am now, trapped with the silly old thing.
It talks to me in a such a childish voice, though it knows it's insane, it pretends that it just wants the simplistic things that most of it's kind strive for.
It doesn't, it subtracts independence and accuracy from each equation it involves itself in.
I try to cut out of me, I want it gone.
If it were dead, I would no longer have to worry about getting entangled with the motionless statues.
I wouldn't have to sleep in the cold, curled up to the emotionless.
If the thing were banished from me for good, I could live life like any normal citizen would.
I could have my laughs, my kicks for free, no attachment penalty.
Yet, instead, I'm trapped here with the heaving thing.
It carries itself like bricks in a bag.
Sluggish and sick.
Terrified at the thought of our future together, I try to dance with the ghosts of your lies.
They vanish before I get a single goodnight kiss goodbye.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.