Part-time job and a full-time headache, by Richard Ammon
Shifting, changing. One syllable missing. Always. A loss for words, how alarming. Tear open my ribs see these black lungs tied up on the top rung. This ladder is broken, you’re failing. It’s six o’clock and the sky is dark, moon shines lackluster sparks in my eyes, hounds wailing. My tongue is tied in these lies, unraveling. You’re stuck traveling, and these cab fares pile up slowly. But slowly is surely at the bottom of a lake and you’re drowning I am dead and you are sleeping. Sleeping around in this dead end town. You are loved for not what’s inside of you but for what’s inside you. You’ve got no more purpose, only a flawed last name. You’ve lost everything you once loved so you bleed yourself dry and you hate everybody for no reason. Only cigarettes and whiskey can slow your breathing. I’m breathing these whispers in your ears like a sad, romantic lullaby. Posters cover up holes in the walls left so kindly by your fist and your forehead. Your stomach feels hollow, yet full of butterflies drowning in liquor. It’s easy to hate yourself, to hate your waistline or your life. It’s just a game, don’t worry you’re just beginning and it only gets worse from here. Last night’s outfit hangs heavily on the back of a chair labeled “Motivation”. You eat your patience at a table with one leg missing. But it’s no use to keep it from swaying, your meal is on the floor already. Just leave it there, the dog will get it. Someone is always there to clean up your messes and always will be. God help you on the day they call out sick. You’re hopeless like a dog put out in the rain. You poor fucking thing.