Urine Pants

I have no opinions; pills signal chemicals in my brain to tell me how to feel. Outside my apartment rain seeps between cracks in the pavement. As the road becomes saturated it begins to smell like chemicals, petroleum harvested from graveyards of those long deceased. We burn our ancestors and draw hopscotch lines on their charred remains. Teenage dreams reverberate from a television several walls away only to be interrupted by the stench of stale urine as I bring my hand to my face to scratch my nose. I briefly consider maturbating to internet porn after returning my hand to my pants. There is a vice on my head, the fierce numbing grip of an outsider. I am terrified of time and measurements, of quantitative analysis and standardization. Pour my fluids into a beaker and drill for my marrow. Take me apart and process me into syrup so that I might seep through the cracks that run deep in the pavement.