When I arrived at the venue, they knew I was coming—
After all, I am born this time of life to everyone’s party,
But for some reason, for this one, instead of running,
I decided to stay a little longer and bring my army.
We’ve made this lovely brown face our home—
And get so drunk at night we forget who we fuck!
But our kids turn out so pretty and pink, with yellow foam,
That we just toast to the next and make more muck.
It is so entertaining to watch our host try to evict us
With their charcoal creams, pathetic pokes, and egg whites,
Searching the world for an antidote to conflict us,
Like a desperate alchemist searching for immortal life.
They think maybe we’re getting smaller, but in actuality,
We’ve been here so long they’ve adjusted.
When one of us dies, we’ve got to memorialize mortality,
So we dig deep, scarring tan tissue with wounds crusted.
We barely go outside anymore, only indoored disconnection.
They don’t leave the house so we guessed our host is sick.
They never talk to anyone and just stare at their reflection
So it could be illness or maybe they’re just a narcissist.
They do the same thing every day, softening during each:
Letting pillbugs crawl on their body until sundown,
Looking at old pictures while weeping on bedsheets,
Keeping a scoreboard on the wall labelled, “One down—”
And beneath bulleted:

Do I deserve battle scars without a battle?
Cycle: Chocolate to relieve stress→more blemished complexion
Feeling ugly, feeling Argus, feeling cattle
I can see when they stare at my sprinkled ruin
Mini volcanoes were experiments reserved for kids
And for some they explode, but mine never rid.
Perhaps if I go outside, and take them with me,
I can live a life that they will hate eventually.

It looks like they found a way to end our festivity:
We only come to those who’ll shut life’s door.
Open true; for those on trial, we will go eventually.
They might not be alive to see, but they’d have lived more.