won't know when i'm gone
The air keeps shifting colors. I am nauseated by the stink of eye lids. I keep moving with my cloud. I wish I could've appeared before I was born to hand my mother blueprints for an abortion. Now I dream of a cancer diagnosis. I will tell the doctor to give me a morphine drip and let it all run its course. I tap the hardwood floor for a trap door, a chute dropping me through the bottom of the Earth and into outer space.