Roadkill

I’m not gonna beg for it. If it comes from the heart, let it come. Not from the mouth, never there. That middle school narc. That piss-poor player center stage, for a mid performance. It's brought only shame to no foreseeable end and a nausea that won't quit.

Been lost in my crevices for untold ages, and still am. Twisting paths, leading me right where I started. It isn't making this any easier, any clearer.

But I need to spell it out bluntly, like road kill On baked asphalt. Like one way sign; no entrance, no exit, dead end, only.