Slimy Yeets


I’d smile when I greet my teachers but it wouldn’t make a difference
with this mask on.
I rarely smile in public, now.

Everyone is so disguised and distant;
It feels like we are much further away than six feet.
Everyone feels like my second cousin; like Aunt Petra’s kids at the pool parties.
Those pool parties are a thing of the past.
The way things are looking, I might never see Petra again.

Ever since school started and the virus continued,
the silver tops we work at are
suddied with slimy yeets
every hour or so.
It’s become a ritual.

I’m scared to sit next to someone at a restaurant,
but I’m fine with the faceless chef fixing food for me.

I’d imagine that the freakbag squags will be wandering the streets soon.
I will be the only
one here because
when I think of needles, I think of heroin.

Or I’ll be the foot soldiering squag:
with the tar lungs and false sense of freedom.
I’ll be coughing up blood and forced to wear a

I can’t keep visiting my ill,
grandfather and leaving without a hug.

I will become a mutated crawler if it means I can offer a proper goodbye to him.

It’d be nice for him to see a smile.