#8

Sometimes you need a little smoke in your lungs

If you know what I mean

A benign tumour on your back

Your own little piece of organized chaos

That prevents you from exploding

Just one small pocket of your body

That isn’t yours or anyone else’s

It belongs to disease.

Let it fester. Let it sit there and eat at you.

I guess it’s okay right?

There needs to be at least one spot

That can filter out of your body every toxic thought

Every meagre emotion so that it sticks

To the area, ripping up the sides of the open wound

But it still doesn’t make me feel like Lana Del Rey

You know what I mean?