Feed Me, Seymour Chase Garvey-Daniels it lives in dimly lit bathrooms and distressing whirlpools of self critique my god, is there one? i plead, dropping to my knees in agony the kitchen tiles beckon me to join the debris as Ares slashes my stomach atomizing any hope of making it back to my room without being seen feed me, seymour! my urges are just too strong and I am not enough i breathe wordless thanks into my pillow for holding me as robins jog me from purgatory the slow crawl to salvation turns ugly, as tunnel lights scamper away with a cheeky grin crumbs tumble down my tee weaving their way into the threads of my failure the toaster now a cozy hideaway in which I seek to leap face first into its fire exonerating my fears, glazed in eternal freedom
