i am Cure
The television shuts off
and its controller is dropped to the floor.
the hand that had once mastered it follows but is held back by an anchor that only allows it to hang a mere inch away from the grime-ridden tiles that let roaches and rats rape its grout. the anchor remains collapsed in his chesterfield office chair as he stares unblinkingly into his television’s black face. his drained eyelids droop, but remain lifted enough for his pupils to peer through dried mucus and stray tufts of hair whose stench attracts follicle-violating ants. his jaw remains slack as his lungs heave a breath that the rising tides of wrinkles in his clothes hide along with the rippling in his skin caused by the protruding ridges of a suffocating ribcage.