Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

These hands smell like rotten eggs
The residue
Makes my palms
Have yellow hues
A self induced
Measuring the heat of my madness
Which has less to do with sadness
And more to do with loneliness
And boredom

Cyclical digestion rounds
Made like washing the hair
The most important thing is you don’t repeat
But unless you do
You don’t feel clean
Not sufficient to cover the self’s esteem

The repetition ignites my feeling alive
But if I keep this up
I may die.


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