There is no “sick enough,” but some days I wonder.
If I beat it harder, left it writhing in the dust only to be spat on, would I be happy?
This of course leaves me with my mind.
Ethereal and cold, she begs to be noticed.
If I split my mind, carved out the memories and blew them into the air like dandelions, would I be happy?
Left with no shell and no substance, just girl, dust and stars.
Drifting into the smoky blue backdrop, nothing feathering her.
Only then do I realize that I’m the absence of my body, I am indifferent to tough. In the blank, my mind yields no questions.
The starlight girl is drifting, not peacefully, but aimlessly.
Some days I still wonder about the starlight girl. I feel less connected to her, my breath lighter.
Now there is a new girl. A shadow feathered in light.
There is no sick enough.