Humphrey Bogart

She had said I should be. The worm inside her. Make my home in the dirt. Darkness my sight. She said she knew. Both the drain and the surge of the needle. As it stitches broken veins. Pretending to mend as it stiffens all those holes.

There is no hope to be found in this pale derivative. I encountered the genie. Flaunting its allotment of wishes. Three times I asked it, but it never gave me what I wanted. Only used my words against me. Turning my weaknesses into its bullets.

If you believe in a reason good for you. But I've spoken with them on several occasions. Salesmen. That's all they are. You are a quota. A product. A commission that won't see the sale.

Always thinking I have lived until it happens. Like picking fruit. Toting those heavy baskets. To pay for what otherwise would've fallen.

Noble departures are a thing of the past. Now there's only leaving.