It’s embarrassing. I’m a grown man, with a job, house, wife, and kids. Yet, for whatever reason, my mood depends so much on the weather. I’m furious and dying. It’s May and it’s gray and raining and everything is soaked. My skin is wrinkled and my heart wails in my soggy chest, writhing in my sunken flesh, gasping, decaying in some bog. I can’t take it. I want those big bright sunny days. I want to swim and run and walk and melt. Baste me in bronze. Dye my hair blonde. Instead I’m a malodorous ghoul. I can’t take it.
S.N.O.T. (5-11-2019)
