Electric shock.

Trace the nerve running back to my brain.

Across the cheek.

It’s like some fucked up version of BF Skinner.

Intermittent enforcement.

and I am the rat.

Touch, pain.

Yawn, pain.

Smile too wide, pain.

It is coming to take my voice.

This isn’t metaphor

(Although there is something vaguely poetic about it)

(I haven’t figured it out yet)

(Some lesson? Some wisdom I’d rather not have)

(A poem I’d rather not be tasked with writing)

This is a slowly unfolding nightmare where the disease has control.

This is the game of what else can be taken away and how long can I endure it.

Actually, I love the singing. That’s me and my friends. The crowd is a performer afterall.

Bonus, i didn’t get this on our road trip playlist, but I love this cover of Tuneyards:

Bizness