Like vomit, I'm the bile
rising in your throat
Burning all your loving thoughts;
All the love you'll ever know.

I've poisoned all your sorry songs,
your soliloquy, mid-July
And you'll sit and write another, bid,
"The parasite, and I."

Nauseating, forth, I'll spit—
Two fingers down your throat.
Blooming from your pretty lungs
another putrid, painted coat.

Free me from this prison
Your nobility, that I lack.
Another act of selfishness
another karmic weight laid on my—

A holy sewage funeral
Send me off with kind regards.
Give my euology like you knew,
That my kindness was always a farce.

May I rest well and quiet,
Kick up no dust as I'm laid down!

You'll laugh and leave out yet,
the most important part
That, you told me Hell was real,
That I was Satan's work of art.

Oh, I've seen not Heaven, nor Hell
But I've felt purgatory:
The humming in my fingertips,
And now that I'm six feet beneath,
I know it lies before me.

I stare now into the endless sky
And watch the pavement crack,
In between sprouts the seeds of doubt
And as if noticing me,
the stems turn black.

I've not yet seen them since,
Since you planted them in me.
I bet with all the springs and winters, past
You've finished your soliloquy.

I've seen it nailed upon the church;
Blessed be, our savior, you.
He is all around me still,
Everywhere but you.

I'm a means that's meant to end,
though my ending's long overdue.
So starving, and so sorry—
And, sorry! You should be, too.