Some people get butterflies in their stomach.
I get ugly black moths in mine.
I fold my arms, and watch the traffic go by.
I think about unfastening my seatbelt, letting go
But I can’t imagine how it feels to be crumb,
A dust mite, a snotty tissue, a broken black crayon
A stomach can only hold so much,
when will the vacuum burst open and vomit?
I’ll be a bacterium’s meal one day.
I hope they enjoy me like I enjoy my chicken fingers.
But is that really me they’re biting? Or just my clothing?
Maybe our souls become gas on Jupiter.
Or maybe these pills are just making me stupider.
They’ve made me fatter. That’s for sure.
Oh well. I keep on breathing