Fight, fight hard.
It grips my eyeballs,
squeezes and tears are always rolling.

I want a trowel.
Dig straight into the top of my head.
Pull out the slime
that wants me to kill my soul,
to shatter my vessel.

Where does the slime go when I die?

Scream for help but it’s foolish.
They can’t remove the slime.
Their medicines are Band-Aids
for a brain blasted by a .357.

Let me hop on a balloon,
fly until it pops,
land in a volcano,
disintegrating into molten slime,
slime remainders that have lost their power.