Leave,
leave—
find,
grieve.
Fly,
cry,
seeing each lie.
So cold,
so cold—
but it’s hot,
I’m told.
Fun.
Numb.
Finding one.
Finding me,
seeing free.
Becoming,
becoming—
only me.
Fullness,
fatness,
thinness abound,
hovering here,
over the ground.
Floating in bliss,
caught in the mist,
no longer seeing
the things I have missed.
It’s patently obvious,
he said, smilingly,
as he took
some more flesh
from this old, broken body:
What you are feeling
means you’re like me.
That’s how you can fly.
You don’t have to die.
It’s all right here—
can’t you see?
It’s all so—
well—
so heavenly.
Fuck off,
I said,
somewhat vehemently.
It sucks to fly.
It sucks to be free.
Because it’s patently obvious
to me:
I’m dying here—
can’t you see?