my machine's not fully broken

i want to be emaciated. bleeding screaming scratching

i want to you to look at me and see me for what i am

to feel my insides

the rotting ache in my rectum

how it reeks of rubber

tarnished blubber

you say it's normal but i don't feel normal

i feel sick.

so i want

veins popping eyes enlarging

my temporal bone

out in the open

then you'll know

because i feel grey

but i'm bloated

i'm frail but i'm exploded

and i no longer want to pray.

don't tell me i'm fit

don't tell me i'm fine

because i don't want to meditate

i want to fade

but an income of median range

gets no financial aid

you can't hear him

the carnivorous spokesman

yodeling within

and how i listen

how we listen

we confuse the greyness for a blanket

the weight for warmth

the horrible comfort

of swallowing my own blubber

to vomit or commit?

to the stench of my broken stomach

i'm grey

but my machine's not fully broken