Just Shit

In the morning

I remove creamy panties,

soiled by the night spent alone.

I have a bad case of smokers’ curse,

stepping out into the cold,

chasing air of some sort of substance,

instead

I fill my ribs 

with something fleeting and futile,

coughing up infinite phlegm

and exhaling wisps of nothing.

Sometimes

its satisfying to look back down into the toilet

and confirm that there is 

something that testifies for

your existence,

even when that something is 

Just Shit.

At night

I dress my wounds

unwind my bandages,

tally the aches in my heart,

tend the sores on my skin,

swallow horse pills.

Crawl under the covers, 

knowing that I am already not ready 

to get out of bed.