this stall is occupied

i can't afford

a private hell.

my hell is

a public bathroom

with no locks

where travelers come and go:

i smear my shit on the walls,

like letters on a computer screen

hoping to deter them

but it only seems to attract more

like flies.

they gawk at

my display,

some even call it art,

as i smear my innards on the walls.

i can't help it;

my innermost thoughts must always be

thrust out

like vomit

after a long night

even when they'd be better left

unwritten.

my mind, like my body,

must shed its waste,

but it is not flushed so easily

down the toilet.

my pipes

are clogged,

choking on filth.

trash

with nowhere to go

simply makes its home

wherever it is convenient:

collecting

in frantic internet posts

that are quickly buried,

filling the gaps in my brain

until it begins to rot,

eating away my memories,

just to sustain its malformed flesh.

i can't afford

a private hell.

mine is a public bathroom,

where everyone comes

to dump their waste,

here and then gone.

yet i remain:

i haven't finished

dumping my load yet.