I can take care of myself. Scratch that.
I’m not motivated enough. String me up
by my fingertips and encase me
in sunshine and barbed wire.
These are the kinds of dire straits
I regularly seek. I have a weak heartbeat,
pudding for a brain. A stain
upon the membrane of whatever it was
I once desired most. Was it love?
If you must give it a name,
make sure that name has aesthetic worth.
Make sure it has a warm place to sleep.
The pit of my stomach has deepened
to a disturbing degree, and sooner or later,
it’s going to be me who’s digested
in its depths. Now that’s what I call music.

-r. miller

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