I want to be sick forever
old and decrepit,
so that by the time I can face it
visiting hours will be
over.

I could kill my self now
and I would leave a note in the
densely jungled pits of
my buttercup hands
written with the blunt edge
of a dried up fountain pen.
My left would say:
"here my garden
grows in shadow, sick things blooming
in absence of sunshine."
And you would have no idea what
significance that tiny confession
had.
But my right hand would be
methodic and cerebrally legible;
I imagine it would say something like:
"I am your many whores
Everyone you failed to please
And I am shattered, because you
Did not give me water."

and inches of all of you
would effervesce with
guilt; boils would rise
in your teeth; pills would lodge
in your wooden throats; my scent
would rot under your tongues.

in your shrieks you would feel
the glide of my
chuckle.