Your bloodshot eyes,
your pale skin,
your blank smile,
am I selfish for wanting to take this from you?
You were an athlete,
but now you struggle to escape
the dirty couch
or exit your house.
You were social,
but now you only watch re-runs.
They will never change,
not like you have.
You were exciting.
When you entered a room,
it exploded with euphoria
and the resulting shrapnel
carved laughter into wounds.
You wanted to be the best,
but now you only think you are.
As tall as you are,
people only look down at you,
down on that dirty couch.
Your decaying skin,
your drooping eyes,
all innocence and essence
have diffused into
your dime bag.
I'm jealous.
I can't bear to see my mother cry,
not like you have.
You can't think
can't process,
can't progress.
No more games,
no more glory,
no more accomplishment.
You aren't "above" anyone,
you're only higher,
higher on that dirty couch.