Forever The Sickest. You wish for all the dreadful bulks to disintegrate before cockcrow. You wonder if garbage enzymes taste like rotten starfruits and cheddar. You don’t know how to fix a wispy, broken arm of a space monkey. You stare at your own brainchild plenteously- a scaly fish burger and could almost smell the funk, raw and filthy. You are dumb with speech, there’s a beer bottle spinning in mid-air, and you just want to go to sleep…

This Is How Frantic I Hollowed Out. There’s a stale growth of thickened words in my esophagus that won’t go away or dissolve with the large amount of fluids I’ve quaffed. For quite a few moons now that I’ve stayed by her side and she had been the one putting me to sleep, (bundling me in thick blankets, and nimbly stroking my body or hair) her yodels softening some ancient lullaby every single morning. One night, as I sat there watching my gangling hands turn hungry in the advancing light and laid my weepy head down on her swollen abdomen, I had come close to making her retch in pain and apathy.

Um ein Busenfreund, year 2008. You showed me your family portrait once when we were back in school, dressed up in neatly pressed uniforms and living school day by day like tuckered out kids. Back then when you were little, you did not have freckles like you do now — to me, they are the most just being ingrained on your skin. Less than an imperfection that you pointed out feebly, they look like dust from the field where you last cradled a football. Through tenacious times, we have shared with each other confessions, little problems boxed within bigger problems. Erstwhile, when we both felt suicidal, I have had you to count on. While I sat down and started twisting my bedroom’s curtains until they crease, you sped across roads on your skateboard to join me in the partake of dreadful sadness and potions. Even when having preferred smoking drags and climbing seats to talking, you have taught me good in the most discreet manner to appreciate monologues and silence, (this alone being something I could never thank you enough for).

Morbid/Dicks. I want to fix you a dozen of milk-drug cocktails and wear your heart like frozen fur on my body while you hit the sidewalk. It will be for an entire week of violent ridicule and torture, all because you are so deserving of sly vice.

Swiss/Candy. We all have been looking for empty tree trunk holes to hide in, wrangling to discharge livid clouding drops from inside. You burn unto me pushcart scars and ghost stories. While the water waits to boil, changing the flask button from amber to green- you speak, you smoke, you see, you shift. Here comes Thursday morning, and only bitter fiction is becoming.