I have been slightly unhinged
  
 as if a door willingly separating from the bolts
 for an illusion of freedom, only to end up 
 in the verandah, rotting under July sun.
  
 as if the itches on my arm are acts of 
 protest against a brain which simply
 wants to get rid of all my limbs.
  
 Another monologue on desperation
 & the melancholia of existing inside
 a body that dislikes you. 
   
 so much, that your left ankle cracks every time
 you walk towards a wishful, acheless,
 future. 
  
 so much that you don't think you'd
 have a future.
  
 exactly how, toads dislike salt water, 
  
                         how modern life dislikes muddy 
                         footprints on the carpet. 
  
                         how we're all happy and dancing in the
                         garden, until we're not.
  
  
 ENDNOTES:
  
 Where does all this sadness come from?
 Where does it all go?
 You're stained in rust, and the aftermath
 of a bacterial storm.
 You smell like a construction site.