Title Me, Insignificant

I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?

I am ruin.