cellophane daydream

the days drip
away
in silence.

they don't care
enough
to hate me the
way
they used to.

i used to be a fucker.
i used to be a fiend.
now i'm afraid of getting shot
on my way home from
the grocery store,
so i remain silent
in the same way
the days
drip away.

i used to be able
to go an hour straight
without pause.
now, i go an hour
without any hope
of climax.

the joints
feel as if they're
trying to wrench out
from under the skin.

pouring salt in the wounds
doesn't help anymore,
and i have a bad tooth
that needed to be pulled
six months ago.

the other night
i was so dizzy
that i threw up.
and it got me to thinking
of how it will be
when i throw up
for the very last time.
i can't pour salt
on that
wound.
even if i did,
i'm afraid i wouldn't feel
anything.

but that's they way
with numbness;
it gets in the way
of any feeling
at all.

so as a profound
asshole,
i decided to write
it out
in a poem.