norovirus and other falsifications

 
I said it was the stomach flu.  
I lied.  
 
Because I can’t  
with  
people today,  
and I can’t  
with me today,  
and today  
I can’t, I can’t  
I can’tcan’tcan’tncannnt  
 
A loud sob-cry escapes me,  
it's an ugly sound  
my voice is hoarse and wet  
 
the pile of tissues,  
little parachutes of snot and regret,  
both worth about the same  
when it comes to it  
stares at me from the floor  
as I’m curled on top of the  
quilted comforter  
crying into a teal t-shirt  
with a shark on the tit  
 
while I try to process  
more agony of my own making  
fuck, I make that shit in bulk.  
 
and it’s like  
rabid rats chewing  
their way out of my body  
in the softest spots,  
breeding along the way  
to peel my fascia from my bones  
and punch through the  
layers of skin  
simultaneously  
 
from the gut,  
the chest ,  
the throat,  
 
and from that space behind my eyes  
where I see you  
with me draped sideways  
on your lap  
while I ramble about  
some bullshit  
that absolutely has no  
merit or meaning  
 
but god… you felt like home  
 
and I’ve always been homeless at heart.  
 
So today I lied,  
and laid under my  
bridge to my personal hell  
with my rats and my  
sorrow and my fear  
and my feckless fucking nature  
 
none of it keeps me warm as  
I curl up and fake-sleep,  
shivering through  
another bad round  
of hitting refresh  
praying against    
something I asked for  
 
So I lay unable to think,  
as the teeth in my chest  
scrape my brain,  
as my dirty fingernails  
dig furrows  
into my own shoulders,  
and sobs  
grab my screams  
like dream-catchers from hell  
 
I said it was the  
stomach flu.  
But I lied.  
 
I said I didn't  
want to see you  
right now.  
I lied about  
that too.  
 
And vomit flecks at the back of my  
throat when I think about  
how far I let it all go  
 
when I said …  
 
what I said….  
 
 
and I lied…