Call me Callous

I must be sick.
Nothing sounds good.
Everything tastes suspicious.
Something stinks-
and not in just one place.

And I am switching on and off
like a light, from flaming heat
to icy sleet.
I shiver at my ashen image.
All is muted in grey,
like that one fat cloud
shorting the light behind
that does not desire
to move
me, but instead
hovers in hauntology.

I must have thrown out my smile,
I haven't seen it in a while.

Denial is a thick word
that extends in all tense directions.
And when I look back,
it was there and here.

I cannot speak right.
It is not your misunderstanding
it is my bad, I prose,
I left out the important details.

All my forgotten failures
have been waiting for me
to give up,
to add them up,
to throw up
the shit in the fan
and splatter the walls
with my acidosis.

Etching insults on my skin,
wretching my brain,
I am stained with vile regret-
yet, it may be a nasty infection
of my excommunicated ego,
though -I'm still -I think
I must be sick
of myself.



Image of painting By Artist Edward Prentis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.