Garbage
Like junk, like bruises, nothing precious, boop.
Garbage is just junk in a network from dead (or living) people.
The funky unraveling.
I could be mentally ill except…
Mudslides.
Old magazines are not much older than me.
And yet, only one of us needs air.
That’s the magazines, I don’t need invisible stuff like air.
Cloaked in medicine.
The mossy rocks in my head.
Garbage is collected every day because…
Otherwise we would bruise for real.
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