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.