opening body bags in heaven

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January 15, 2015 by Wayne.

she gets fatter every
time i see her
27 days between
each time
she gets fatter

tiptoeing past cydonian
knights of the cossack patrol,
i am scared
of how she looks at me
of her granola and yoghurt and untouched house-cured salmon
of the part of her that refuses to die
of the weightless hate-less animals
of commissions running dry
of repeating myself
of the heaven that refuses to come in
of cursing in churches I won’t return to
of the white hair sprouting on the sides
of the way we’re on standby, we voluntary fuckbois
of the sporadic whispers and involuntary reactions
of what could have been
of vacancies
of my abusiveness
of being crushed when i fall off my bed
of never losing the weight dragging the corners of my mouth and waist
of the burning in the urethra after the last hooker
of christine finding out i was the one messaging her
of falling in love
of my house when i’m the only one standing still
of being forgotten before i’m dead
of never finishing all the books i said i read
of never talking to rachel again
of being deleted
of no diversions
of coming too early
of having to see her at graduation
of working my time away
of the way she looks at everything
of her no longer bothering with the airlift or the rescue
of cockroaches and heights and the night
of gorrister hanging limply overhead
of fan death
of jamie and his disabling mallet
of overnighting with carman at the comp sci building with chinese delivery
of never being able to show someone whyte for the first time
of lethal shrooms
of may jean never returning to talk me out of suicide
of never snowboarding again
of bumping into wendy
of drowning
of inauthenticity
of su not referring to me
of the former 103 server who is scared of me
of the std tests
of unfiltereds no longer helping
of her lopsided smile
of the tall girls who peer over my deformed body
of the economic portents
of sitting alone in the field
of being crippled
of going deaf
of the mass of 20-somethings in pocket singlets and pestlemortar shorts
of repeating myself
of a premature life
of her
of me

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