Sweat

I love this stuttering sickness:
empty inside and undone on the out,
collapsing into myself for the next time
I breathe in the breath that I exhaled,
busting buttons buttoned down my busted lip,
break fast for the sunrise sunshine
twisting four leaf floral gas petals
into lead lined coffins, confining
coffee filter fungus and burned styrofoam,
catastrophe cupcakes for this birthday bash
breaking headlong into bruised gray matter,
doesn't matter, doesn't matter anymore.