My heart’s
lukewarm
with anaesthesia.
Call me a monster
and maybe I’ll reward you
with a flinch:
To the Sahara-oven
or Arctic-fridge
I cannot travel.
I’m tired.
So bland—
A smile, a jump,
people believe you’re alive.
Amoral
Amortal
A portal—
A bed.
Lead me to the world of my head.
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