Slow Suicide

Shoot me now.

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By Trish. Prickly, alone.

He gets a laugh, the famous comic.

No topic is taboo.

Mixed colours with whites.

Stayed out all night.

Played poker with the boys.

Made too much noise.

See this manly rotund tum? Beat a bass line on that drum.

Get grief there too.

You’re getting fat.

I don’t love you looking like that.

She says.

Shoot. Me. Now.

I sit. I listen. Take it all in.

Heart and soul alerted.

I hear my laugh. My face, it smiles.

My secret self, inverted.

We’re all dying, the comic calls.

It. Is. The curse of living. 

Enjoy that beer, that glass of wine.

A second bowl of pudding.

So, you get fat. Can’t leave the couch.

Feed blocks of chocolate through your mouth.

Your girl might leave. She’s hard to please. 

Your dog will stay. His love’s for free.

You’re gonna die. You gotta live.

It’s your choice on how that is. 

Shoot. Me. Now.

Tears find a trail down to my chin.

Drop to a lap that isn’t slim.

I graze and nibble treats, all day.

Pure sugar, carbs, all have their way.

My loathsome lack of self-control.

The need. The want. They hijack thoughts.

Disease, the doctor says. Of course.

Permission now to stay this course.

Surrender. Submit.

Obesity’s shit.

Constantly eat. Feed cancerous cells.

That kind of living does not end well.

I laugh out loud.

Shoot. Me Now.

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