Wellness is watery sickness, not only in the mind, but in the lungs and innerworking cavities that compel you to keep melting off and lukewarm, and keep digging in until the underneaths of your fingernails are orange and slimy and somehow gorgeous,

in the back of the bottom of the trench of the malady-riddled fear you fill your throat up with for sundaes brunch. You are okay, in the way that is a mystery to lyricists everywhere, in a way in which you could not, can not, find a way out when they’ve tried to say they’ve known you from

a story in a book that combusted into rickets and allergies that she dates back to the 17th century and you cannot tell if it happened in a month a day and a month in May and you may have heard this

before, and the limpid rapid syllables pour out from tear-gassed cheeks in ways so foreign, in places so warm, you could not, can not recreate, can not race for a cure in the valleys and tangerine sadness flooding through paper mache inflicted into eyes, fowl turning out of tune and

you could not ever understand, you can not feel every crevice inside peanut-butter shut, residual bitter waste, all about the subconscious and all about Friday and you would not ask me even if you wanted to. You would not tell

a lie if a horse by any other name would request it upon you, and you could not ever understand the dripping echoing throughout barnyard storms and grown men crying.