i’m such a grain of salt that it’s difficult to feel sweet again.
no, i’m not entirely bitter to the taste, because you seem to like me well enough, but it’s a sort of inward sensation.
that sensation of oh i’m making myself sick to the stomach oh i’m a dry kind oh -
everything i feel or smell is brownish, kind of sickly, not so stimulating.
i want to wear a fine pastel something, but i don’t know if that would do it.
my food gets cold, drops to the floor, i don’t even seem to remember many things anymore.
i hate to live divided, wish my mind were a whole.
i wish i could write poetry like a real person instead of seeing it as an infection,
something to keep under the skin and cause to distort itself rather than get it checked out.
are things from the brain meant to be so easily misunderstood?
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