even my breath tastes wrong a mix
ture of swiss cheese bites and what i
imagine the smell of people must taste like,
and i hate it.
i hate it with such a burning passion but
hate is too soft of a strong word to de—
—that’s what my body is, a scribe. writ
large into a word i’d rather be written onto. cause
all i got are words on loop through skull
can’t help but wonder am i insane. then i
recall what my body functions as, a call to
dead (maybe resurrected) god(s) who i know not
how to know, a scribe written by beings or
that by which i write about being in world. but
my breath still tastes wrong and i wonder what
that could mean.