The ceiling is
afraid to blur or turn, it dangles,
comatose, stares right through me,
yellowing and cracked.
I live inside
what I cannot change or borrow,
flipping through identity cards
which do not match my face,
my traits, my date of birth.
I am young and I am disgusted.
I can’t even explain my reasoning.
But listen anyway;
my hell should be your ultimate priority.
I will not sugarcoat my lips
or blunt my tongue
or spare you;
I’m taking the plunge
and you’re coming with me.