Junk Mail
It’s like I’m carrying everyone’s mail.
Even the junk mail.
And also a lung for transplant.
Which failed.
When you’re depressed?
You get sliced and spliced.
Like a dead body for transplant.
Almost like apples for apple pie.
Which was botched with too much cinnamon and goo.
Can’t uncook it.
That’s the issue with depression.
You can send a lung to someone and it’s ruined somehow.
Or send the most annoying junk mail ever and it makes it every time.
They blame me either way.
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