Plain, no seasoning, no taste, not new
sour like bile rising up in your hroat,
forming a film so wretched in your mouth,
like uncooked meat, chewy and rotting between your teeth,
like broken fingers screaming scraping into your bedside table,
rouch edges like sandpaper rubbing your hands raw,
having bruised cheeks, the pain making you wince with hurt,
being sick and not smelling anything but the snot filling your nostrils,
like cold wind hitting your lungs gasping metallic breaths of air.
When you see dead animals engraved into the gravel,
their bodies mangled and ruined,
like warm vomit pouring out of your mouth,
discoloured meals half digested and hot,
like a high pitched ringing, searching for a bell,
but just cannot seem to place that sound.
When mom's voice no longer fills that empty silence,
and instead all you hear is the crickets of the dying day,
and you no longer have any desire to play...