i am a mediocre at best meal served cold in a run down diner that smells of mildew and grease.
i am the imperfection in your work of art which you erase until i cease to exist and so does the idea that i could ever be a part of something so beautiful.
i am the blood on the mattress and the mud stain on the floor. i am the roach skittering into the dark to hide where it is more comfortable. to where i belong.
i am the dirt below the casket. i do not see the light of day anymore.