Get UP

Get UP
Maybe it's easier.
Lonesome, but easier
to drift alone
along the cesspool of needles
you accept as so-called
simple-celled self-loathing.
Easier than to aspire to rewire
your brain to re-register
your experience as painful.

You know that annoyance is all
I outwardly feel towards you.
If I showed empathy instead,
we'd bed together
and you'd think I accept you
but I do not.
I'll accept you when you do,
but until then you'll confide in me,
go on about your inadequacies,
but your vulnerable face
isn't what I want to see.
In its place,
I'd prefer the god in you,
and that's what's wrong with me.

Get up
Get out
and I'll pat you on the back
for showing your spine.
Really, it's time to get out
of the bathtub.
Carpeted in fungus,
practically an ecosystem
but with no sense of harmony,
the spider on the showerhead
doesn't love you,
I do.