There is blood running from the cuts on my hands
It is inconsistent blood. It drips and drools capriciously
down arms to thighs to knees to ankles
to feet to toes to the cold hard floor
to the drain in the corner of this public restroom
down the eternity or instance
of a sewage pipe

The smell is a terrible smell
it smells not of death, but of life leaving the body
as it wastes itself to nothingness
before the mirror of a Seven-Eleven.
All the world is spinning, though
it feels as though it’s stopping.

The muse would be perfect had I a feather-pen
to dab in to my liquids. The circumstance
is not so perfect.

I can only sigh and consider
working a dead-end job in a burger joint
(or gas station):

This must be
just what that
feels like