The Last Yellow Days Of Anna Lauzonis

the stench of perm and death permeates this place
that defends against the permanent rest

becoming what we see and what we read in the obituaries
we are what we eat and what we drink yet we abuse our bodies
thinking that maybe the truths of it may set us free
if freedom is a slow suicide

getting paid minimum wage to contemplate mortality every other day

I see the cold, I see the alone, I see the too old to live on their own
and it gets to this blank excuse for a beating in the chest
that I throw into a heart shaped glass filled with ice to keep it alive