It feels like a paper weight–
sitting, rustling, biding time–
It eats at my esophagus,
Nestles in the nook of my rib cage.
I don’t like the word “scream,” but I want to.
When the musics fades away, It is back.
It munches on my spare time,
My pure thoughts,
My yellow sandals in the corner.
Unconsciousness is not sublime.
When will It finish with me?