secret motel

Everyone is dying around me. Almost as fast as I'm dying way down inside myself. Please don't rush the taste of grey air. Please don't stain my shovel. My skin is the complexion of empty fields. And I smell like motel rooms lining the forgotten highway. Mildew creeps up the shower curtain to dance with a brief flash of sunlight. I hurt my head in the empty parking lot. The smell of snow on a sunny day gives me headaches. Inhale the lake. I waited for hours. Or years. The people who left me here aren't coming back. There's nowhere to go. And no one is coming back. Might as well watch the sun age into another night and weigh my head down with alcohol. I'll try to sleep through loneliness. And a life of failure.