a conversation

a knocking.

a knock against the brain.

the ticky-tacky feeling of organ on bone, <i>squish</i>.

I'm sorry—did you hear that? I've never before been much of a drinker, the bitter taste the nausea the way it makes me hate my face the unavoidable social element, balance beams.

But what I do know is stress can kill off brain cells brain cells brain cells, effectively shrinking the organ|do you think it could disappear altogether. I worry.

are you listening—?

and you are always present, always <i>there</i>. But that's not to say you've ever, once in your whole existence given a moments care for my wellbeing oh no no no, no.

is what I want to tell you but I just can't. You wrap your strong arms around my insides and I think I might just melt onto the sidewalk or fall asleep for a long long time, with not a kiss to take. Not a word to spare.

I haven't believed in monsters since I was young small in a ball on the kitchen floor trying to explain bad things were creeping up to get me late at night. And if that is what monsters are then you my undesirable life companion are close to that.

You have no arms or legs or eyes or teeth. No lips, but you still manage to tell me every day what my life is worth. Arguably

no more

than nearly $120,000.

I want to scream but you remind me that no one is listening and even if they were even if they were, even if they were

it's late, its dark.

and the front door is made of bone and I could wouldn't cannot shouldn't leave. So I'm here I'm here in here, see.

I'm home to hear the knocking.