substack
(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
the rot
it’s the bump on your forehead
you made by smashing your head into your fist.
then again, it could also be sfx makeup,
globular glob of wet packed onto the flat
of your forehead made big, made bump-like.
it becomes a monolith of sorry, this glob,
swallowing every stupid drunken mistake
into an array of fakeness; because it’s pathetic
and performative, the mass. you can’t seem
to ever get your face right. its twisted to
this pennywise snarl; because it’s shocking,
you’re shocked at yourself, you’re shocked
you’ve made it this far. and the wallowing
is sad and sorry, too, it’s really just dumb,
stupider than kindergarten math or tic tac toe;
it’s useless, the self-pity unproductive. you watch
the mass grow hair and then scab, you find it
dribbling pus then leaking small balls of blood.
it does everything in the book to make itself known.
it is the non-tumor horror, the facet of your
existence with pure and proper sense;
because it’s larger than life and smells like
rotten eggs. when the doctor finally cuts
it open and everything spills out, you heave
out breakfast, yesterday’s dinner, tomorrow’s tea.
you belch everything onto your white paper gown.
and then, finally, you apologize for the mess; because
you’re sorry, because you’re really just very sorry.
you made by smashing your head into your fist.
then again, it could also be sfx makeup,
globular glob of wet packed onto the flat
of your forehead made big, made bump-like.
it becomes a monolith of sorry, this glob,
swallowing every stupid drunken mistake
into an array of fakeness; because it’s pathetic
and performative, the mass. you can’t seem
to ever get your face right. its twisted to
this pennywise snarl; because it’s shocking,
you’re shocked at yourself, you’re shocked
you’ve made it this far. and the wallowing
is sad and sorry, too, it’s really just dumb,
stupider than kindergarten math or tic tac toe;
it’s useless, the self-pity unproductive. you watch
the mass grow hair and then scab, you find it
dribbling pus then leaking small balls of blood.
it does everything in the book to make itself known.
it is the non-tumor horror, the facet of your
existence with pure and proper sense;
because it’s larger than life and smells like
rotten eggs. when the doctor finally cuts
it open and everything spills out, you heave
out breakfast, yesterday’s dinner, tomorrow’s tea.
you belch everything onto your white paper gown.
and then, finally, you apologize for the mess; because
you’re sorry, because you’re really just very sorry.