sickly.

i'm becoming fairly sick. my stomach is urging me to feed it, but i can't bring myself to lift my tired head from this lethal position. i came here on the crest of a wave and was slammed into the earth until my stomach was pink. pink with frustration and pink with hunger, my mind wandered elsewhere.

it wandered and wandered.

and i've arrived in the first person becoming sick again. not physically sick this time, but rather sick with myself. sick with others and sick with being ill. everything is in my hands and i just don't have the power to enable it.

when seeds dig under your tough layer of skin, breed and make socially acceptable homes. when they start to spread and preach manifest destiny. when they build railways, flying machines, automobiles, etc.

you can see them lying under your skin and you wonder what keeps you lying to yourself.

why won't they grow?

you can't allow anything to bloom, because you'll kill it.

go ahead. kill it.