Skeleton, some wonder if you are really practical
keening as you do through this city
ensconced in flesh, a tailored suit for bones
lost plush in skin. Is it a good life within
exiled in the singular anatomical body?
(Thanatophobia, mine.) Ok, breathe. There’s
oodles of oxygen for now—let’s live a little, we’re here!
Natter on, nitwit. I’ve had about enough of you.
Sorry not sorry, said death. He wasn’t fucking around, the
klepto. Meanwhile, the internets wouldn’t shut up about perfection,
elegance, the feminine ideal, that old regime. It was hard not to puff up while
lactating. It took heft to host the parasite. Pregnancy brought a swampy
edema. Bye-bye ankles. Nice knowing you, feet. Intermittent fasting?
Time to give it a rest. We’ll shrink eventual to the ultimate bone,
obits keening farewell, flesh! So wax zaftig, carb while you can, willy
nilly you’ll get there, we’ll get there together, we’re already on our way.
Sunday sloth is its own milk and honey, honey, am I right?
Kudos to you for rationalizing your lazy ass again as in
er “not writing is also writing.” Pussycat, I have bad news.
Lethargy is for losers. Be kind to yourself, the shrink said. I felt shrunk.
Enervating this dopamine addiction and tendency to
toggle between gloomy and elate. Yeah, one minute she’s
ogling men on the metro like some grody monsieur, the next wanting to die.
Natch, dear, you’re here! Don’t ruin everything, for god’s sake.