BY JENNIFER DELANEY
Me, myself, and I all alone together,
In our bed.
I sleep with my sorry self, curled up on one,
If I turn to the right
It’s easier to
Sigh, let smoke and sin try to escape my sorry body and
Mind. It hurts my head but,
If I lay on the left,
Where my bad rib is, guts gone thin, damaged, no tangible,
Glory and carnage to the gods of undergrad, special thanks to my first car crash and that weird flex of a
Prescription pad, as they say,
Ok boomer knows best, what could I even understand, about
Unrest, slept gone but not, kept?