Hiv Is a Judgement

Kisses good-bye; waved out the door. Sitting at the shore. The water is still rolling. You want to know how much longer I'll be here for. We'll all be here till death is at the door. Methadone, morphine will squelch the pain, but for that ONE day when it won't work anymore. All the threads have been cut around the spool ahead. There will be nothing but pain and nothing at the store. People like it when I'm cheery and I don't know where to put myself anymore. Sit, stand, lay; I have no real reason to stay. I am warm and cozy under this hood. My body is clean. That is understood. My cuticles are disgusting. Is this the purply glut they talk about in signs and symptoms of the dead and dying? They are not the nails you see in Cosmo for manicure ads, you know, manicures to die for. My mouth feels mucky and brushing my teeth is a chore. I can't remember one breakthrough from another. Holidays forever around each corner; it would appear I'll still be around, what a drag; the wet blanket. Dead broad walking down the dining room hall. If I could cry and know the river would actually wash these tears away for GOOD; I'd lay down and weep for weeks on end if it we're understood that this would be the bloody end. Tears aren't painful, nothing more than a wash. Not everything is as someone else says.