the other side of the car wash

he doesn’t make my side of the bed in the morning. what is that?

but he washed the linens after talked about night sweats and the smells of being human. being sick all you can imagine is a thin layer of malleable membrane, the essence, all of it boiled down to this very human emotion of disgust,

i am full of germs and tainted fluids.

it’s the grossest thing, being sick just turns me into a giant booger, trapped inside my giant booger cocoon.

maybe this is it. why my side remains unmade.

even though everything has gone through the wash, i want to walk myself through a car wash. i want to be scalded, rubbed down and buffed shiny and new. i want to sparkle with new skin after spending 2 weeks wanting to crawl of it.

surely i’m just metamorphasizing, transitioning to my higher self. or that’s what i tell myself because it’s easier to swallow than “you should have masked at the funeral.” there was so much hugging. so many strangers who i was expected to remember, hugging me, their stranger faces close, their breath close to my breath, meaning well, saying “I’m sorry” but i’m not. i’m not sorry. i’m glad he’s no longer suffering. I'm glad he’s no longer suffering. i’m glad we don’t live forever. i’m glad because there is meaning in it if we don’t stick around passed our expiration dates. we all need to come out of the other side of the car wash to find out what’s next? what happens after?