Your fridge is a wet crime scene that hums in the dark, the bailiffs took notes then they took your last car, the walls are sweating a liquid that shouldn’t exist, and something under the floorboards is keeping a list. And I ask you: “You feeling good?” and you say: “Punk.” You’re twitching in the hallway with a mouth full of foam, you say “I emptied the cabinet, every last dose— the expired, the crushed ones, the ones marked in red, chased them with bleach and the noise in my head.” And I ask you: “You feeling good?” and you say: “Punk.” You’re dragging home bodies still wearing their coats, some of them moaning, some missing their throats. One of them’s begging, one hasn’t got skin, you just grin: “They’re quiet and the night’s still in.” And I ask you: “You feeling good?” and you say: “Punk.” You finish the bottle then drink from the pipe, go down on the tiles with your face turning white. They zip you up fast and they call for the meat, you sit up inside it and spit through the sheet. And I ask you: “You feeling good?” and you say: “Punk.” So I burned every number and sealed every door, let the rot claim the kitchen and the mail hit the floor. Now the clocks have no hands and the days don’t arrive, and you look at me sideways: “You feeling good?” and I say: “Punk.” Now we’re floating in nothing that used to be light, both of us late for a heart that lost the fight. I’m hollowed and quiet, you’re still making noise— turns out we died in the dark and we never had a choice. And I ask you: “You feeling good?” and you say: “Punk,” and you ask me: “You feeling good?” and I say: “Punk,” and we ask ourselves: “We feeling good?” and we say: “Punk.”
