old news

the letters of my name are printed in an aged ink on yesterdays paper, they smell like sweat dried with a heavy heat. the touch of your fingers over my bones break into brittle pieces. they fall into the wells left by others' caresses before you, those and how they fell. its a timeless story, with interchangeable pronouns. it reeks like the wretched scent of hot vomit lined with a double of whiskey on a thursday afternoon, in the bathroom stall with someone pissing somewhere not private and near you. like you'd give a fuck and honestly could use a glass of water to wash it down. where's my face playing under your closed eye lids? can you distinguish it and draw my features like your own staring right at you from reflective surfaces, trace them with elementary mediums, pointed fingers on a floating canvas. traces of nothing. we aren't really artists, not yet, how could we possibly claim to know and interpret what it is to be alive? we're dead. holding hands with the reaper himself as we walk day by day, feigning an agenda to survive. we wouldn't know of anything better to do for ourselves. we're just old news. interchangeable you's and i's.