Your Rot

It’s under my skin. It itches and smells

like rotting potential.

The fast food drive thru kind

where the meat is questionable,

retrieved and pounded from anywhere.

I try to sleep through most of it.

Happy pill banana spilt from adjacent

and similar establishments won’t fucking

allow it, though.

His gold star certificate arrived

today, I can probably be the wife of

someone who makes six figures if I wait

half a decade more.

Familiarity is my drug of choice.

Even if I design all the closeness from

scratch.

Peel off dead skin, ignoring old carnage

with cover up and a dash of whatever’s

left half open and crusted

inside my makeup bag.