born again

eventually
all the wooden jesus's and
their nails
will
catch up to you
like you deserve it.

when the only thing you have left is
spit,
and a friend
on
the other end of line,
it's always enough.

it doesn't make sense
that
we are all crazy,
shooting up every kind of nail,
in the hopes that we won't stop
running away from
them,

the nightmares,
always right there,
scratching the bottom
of
stomach lining,
worse than meathooks.

yet,
when the nightmares have
won,
and the nails have become
nothing
but a placebo,
and the only thing you have
left is digestion.

this works.