I am compost. I am a bag of
waste, I am a mistake
of ligaments and scars and
I am the empty, flashing remains
since the creation of electrons,
I am nothing but stringy flesh
and crusted bones.
This is the society that has
made cancer blooddrunk, so
staggered and still we hunt
our own mutation
like wolves, but
what are we, but fiendish life-factories,
coffee-guzzlers and
bile-spewers?
Who are we, am I, but the pounds
we are made of, the gallons
we gulp?
I am compost waste, we are
the largest writhing landfill in lightyears
and
there is no right to say such things like
I love you.
