Sick Days
You know those mornings you wake up with the taste of blood in your mouth so strong you swear others can smell it on you? It's the morning when you wonder vaguely at who you killed last night because your mouth is fine. Call your loved ones.
It's the day you curl up at the bottom of your shower dreaming of bathtubs and of vines that will re-claim cities. With your nose so close to the drain you will finally realize it reads "Oakland, C- Hip H-- Revolut---" and someone hass scratched it out with razorblades. You begin to wonder what music and drain covers have to do with each other when your organs begin their long delivery through your skin. Your full heart and twisted intestines are exposed, your body proud of the poisons it brews. People only start to notice when the steam dies down, so you cover yourself in layers and layers but your veins creep out like the vines they dream of.
Back in bed your back becomes immobile. Your limbs however begin to move on their own, independently controlled by the brains inside your hips and shoulder blades. Jealous, the brain that trails down your spine like his fingertips boycotts thought and you sleep. You will wake up with bruises.
Maybe though, you will wake up to gifts of mountains that bloom and die like roses. Maybe you will realize you have always wanted vines. Maybe you have something to look forward to.
Take another shower, feel better, and daydream. These dreams will heal any bruises.
It's the day you curl up at the bottom of your shower dreaming of bathtubs and of vines that will re-claim cities. With your nose so close to the drain you will finally realize it reads "Oakland, C- Hip H-- Revolut---" and someone hass scratched it out with razorblades. You begin to wonder what music and drain covers have to do with each other when your organs begin their long delivery through your skin. Your full heart and twisted intestines are exposed, your body proud of the poisons it brews. People only start to notice when the steam dies down, so you cover yourself in layers and layers but your veins creep out like the vines they dream of.
Back in bed your back becomes immobile. Your limbs however begin to move on their own, independently controlled by the brains inside your hips and shoulder blades. Jealous, the brain that trails down your spine like his fingertips boycotts thought and you sleep. You will wake up with bruises.
Maybe though, you will wake up to gifts of mountains that bloom and die like roses. Maybe you will realize you have always wanted vines. Maybe you have something to look forward to.
Take another shower, feel better, and daydream. These dreams will heal any bruises.