garbage disposal afterlife

There is a self loathing
so great
that it hangs men from bed posts
and saws off their legs,
so that the ants may carry him away,
piece by piece,
like a once proud daddy long legs.
There is a self loathing
so deep
that men claw themselves with bottle caps,
trying to get at it—
like a wedding ring lost in the garbage disposal.
There is a sickness in me. Some call it genius.
I call it order.
And once upon a time, this disease made me happy.
But now,
having written the last lines, “happily ever after,”
and scratching the blank pages from the back of every book—
I have to admit that finally;
My happy is gone and never coming back.
My disease.
My mistress.
My five cups of coffee.
I am never coming back either.
I am weary of greasy pans and spoiled leftovers.
I think I will just stay down here
searching for the wedding ring
and other valuable trinkets that I lost so long ago
in the dark.
But do me a favor, won’t you?
I need some light.
Hit that switch over there.
No, not that one. Well, actually,
okay. That one. Hit it. Let’s figure this thing ou—