You shouldn't have followed me. We drink cough syrup with anesthetic teens and their dirty tired blood diamond eyes. We watch them eat domestic stabbing victims in the cellar. They flood the streets with barracudas that congregate on the rotten teeth dangling from their abandoned teeth. Hang me from the power lines, these decrepit vines transmitting backstabbing gossip speak. And don't tell me you love me. Tangle in sentence fragments about loss, and baiting on thunderstorms. Because there can only be so many times that the sky disappoints me. Turn your naked back to me, so I can kiss your ribs and confuse our finger tips.

"You look sick," she says. "Darling, you look sick." We watch ourselves sleep, feeding our palms to bear traps to settle our aching nerves. I am sick. Oh baby, I'm so fucking sick. I want to reach my hand down my throat and pull out my stomach and feed it to the trees. Just to keep the peace, and remember me. Don't tell me you love, please don't tell me that because I'm sick. And I'm just so, so fucking sick.