Minded.

My mouth tastes bad-  like a medicine, or toothpaste-

I can’t decide which one.

My stomach is loud, and it’s beating me up for a BLT,

or something greasy, perhaps just a BBB-

but I think I’ll win, if I wait it out.

My hands smell-  like bleach-  I think that is this taste-

my senses are playing tricks-

and I hate it now-  much, much more-

bleach-  oh, bleach. Poison. Fuck.

My hair-  looked good this morning! Now- not so much-

not to sound so, self-obsessed, but-

just to, uh, write this poem.

About it. 

Fuck.

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