Isolation on the Tongue #1 Bitter
#1 Bitter
Nothing fits right, right now. The days stretch like my skin and the scales count them. I am made elastic through my support of local restaurants. My waistline rumbles, as does my wastepaper basket; littered with takeaway receipts and burger wrappers. I imagine the lining of my stomach mottled with spots of grease and could almost reach inside to rip it out. Hold it to the window to see what the light of another fucking day can make of it.
Tragic.
Nothing fits right, right now. The days stretch like my skin and the scales count them. I am made elastic through my support of local restaurants. My waistline rumbles, as does my wastepaper basket; littered with takeaway receipts and burger wrappers. I imagine the lining of my stomach mottled with spots of grease and could almost reach inside to rip it out. Hold it to the window to see what the light of another fucking day can make of it.
Tragic.
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