My head is steady,
Yet my stomach seems to be sinking as if I’ve sunk into my chair
Melted against the golden grainy pattern, and been dismantled
Like a broken bicycle.
They say the guilt will eat you alive,
But I’d argue different.
I’ve managed to sweep it under the rug
While I fuck some Australian on a bare mattress
Bland cream bedsheets tickle the floor
My back rubbing against the pale wall
And the only one aware of the mess beneath the rug
Is my subconscious sitting at the table with the limbic system of my brain