Tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrow eventually comes
and you are grey haired
and knot-knuckled.
You have measured out
your last cigarette-stained peachpit
and teaspoon

and where once you scuttled
under a dark oppressive ocean, sideways,
hands grapp-grapping at nothing,
snapping at water
as though claws could hold anything
without destroying it,
now you scuttle
under six oppressive feet of dirt.
Now your chitterskin is muffled
by the sweetsour smell
of dead earth.

Everyone believes they will have
one more day,
one more hour,
one more chance.
Everyone believes
tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrow.

The yellow paralyzation
must be shaken off,
must be handed back
as the ill-fitting weskit that it is.

Throw up the last thing you ate —
it sits poorly in your tight stomach,
under the weight
of all the words
you have swallowed back.

Murder your darlings
and be free to murder yourself:
the inside of the peach pit
has always been poisonous.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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