Of Course, I Kept It

My own little eulogy, the CVS smelled like shit and rubber. Kneeling by the toiletries, shedding this second skin as two railroad lines bloom, then take cover. An afterthought painted: my plastic philosophy. Sterile smiles handing me a cup for piss. A six-week solitude all for this 600-dollar photo booth and bracelet. And my own awareness is a void. A ghost’s heartbeat I’ll never name. These poor women got the printer running to advance what I aim to destroy.