10,9,8…

I’m worried.
My stomach is a whorl of why
the fuck is it spinning?
Are my organs not daisy fresh yet.
Boiled two sizes too small.
And so I’ll play my vinyl too loud
for the man upstairs,
maybe he knows it lets me breathe again.
Maybe I could try smoking weed again.
Possibly, if it weren’t for the two and a half
lives I’m responsible for.
Or the way it makes me want to
empty my ribs out.
Maybe that would stop the
round and round,
up and down
fuckery.

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