Monsters don't know how to do hygiene

70%, I take a bath of alcohol 

As if I were, myself, the virus

I'm trying to get rid of.

I shower up from dirt

A crystalized, tainted

Sort of sand

That shatters, dusty, 

Between my catty nails 

And my nasty baby chubby fingers.

I bath myself on cream

As if I were a mud cake

Cooked under the hole of my grave,

With the 37°C heat of the sun,

But still somehow managed

to keep the mold freezed between it all.

I guess, I sprinkle a bit of amnesia and insomnia. 

Since I had the last paragraph fully planned, and none of it was this. What was it?

I take a bath of pure adrenaline

And it's so weird

'Cause I don't even recognize this place

anymore.

I only wish for a cup of tea

Cinnamon, please.

But no one offered.

It's getting out of hand, 

I know it is. 

I shouldn't be in place 

to have to hide my feelings like this.

Not like this.

Have I talked already about my

Probably more than — two very close to suicide attempts?

Ha. I dive in.

Fully gone to swim on a suicide ocean.

But I stay alive.

I go into the shower

For another night of a living hell

I take a soap and water 

Kind of soup

First the main course 

Then an icy dessert;

It starts with an endless effort

To untangle my hair noodles

What quickly develops into

Zombie monsters resurrecting

Trying to invade my space

(that of course was locked, because of zombies apocalypse)

And them screaming and hitting at my door trying to get me out of there at like 3h30 a.m. 

What a terrible timing. 

Who would have said at this time you would be safe, right? 

I mean. 

Zombie apocalypse, man.

I take deep deep breaths breaths. 

Deep deep breaths breaths.

Deeeeeep breeeeaaaths.

I breath. 

So I get back my guts

My shower

My life

My body

And I formulate a plan of survival in here. 

If they manage to pick up the lock and force their way into me one more time, 

I'll start seeing them as cockroaches and treating and detetizing them as such.