Cattle Car, Slaughter House

 

I have become attached to 

my second skin,

the soft barrier between my heart and 

the world, over-ripe and

rotten.

I have grown fond of 

this sack of ugliness, 

the cushion against meaning,

the reason I tell myself 

I’m not happy,

the excuse for why 

I’m not living better.

A pair of eyes on me always,

of my own deception,

the seer of sickness,

the cruel visionary that keeps me ill with 

new symptoms.

I fill myself with grease 

and guilt 

and self-pity.

I slow dance with demons.

I turn away from the divine.