Pink ghosts make HIPPA violations.
A bed is growing into me.
One ghost whispers you are going to die
And another giggles.
I know I say
But not today and not tomorrow.
My pills confer with my blood.
Pills are day makers
And skin often wants no hours dragged out of me.
Better to die like this, my sunburn peel once explained to me,
Young and perfect.
A museum of possibility.
Instead I gorge on sweet filled pills
And make mondays
The clock admires me.
Pretty ghosts titter.
My head screams. When the pills make days my head tries to send them back.
A hand holds my hand.
The morning binges and the evening purges.
Another day dead another in birth canal
Persuading new residents is such a drag,
Hissed the rosest spirit.