Pull yourself apart. Go on. See the things that connect you to other you. It’s all inside. Open up. Each part to part, slide thin things inside, separate. Distend. Open up.
I am still here. Buried underneath layers of silt carried as sediment through tears down my face. Down, down my face. If you chip it all away and there is clockwork underneath, does that mean I am automatic? Do I stil need to be wound up?
Bring me a fucking glass of water. I’m so tired, and it’s always half-empty, even if you fill it. I can kill the fake pain with a fake Advil, but if I shoot myself in the foot I’ll still buy both shoes.
Disperse. Lift up. Evaporating like eyeballs, slow to go, when the rest is gone. You’re my Alka-Seltzer, baby, over the counter and fuzzed up. You make my head feel all right. You make me feel all right.