you won't get what you want

here again.

I have nothing to offer but the skin on my back. 

I roam around the shorn Earth and a dull sun streams across the dusted surface of the mud-caked vehicle fueled on ancient liquids, a constant stampede of iron beasts that reflect harshly on prying, outsider eyes. 

I eat with dirty hands and I've felt such a loss before when I watched your trees fade into the distance, as summer fades into a lonely autumn, and autumn dissipates into the eternal white of heavy snow, and the world stays quiet for what feels like forever, until the sun rises and I hold your hand again - you're warm again. 

Dear all, the lukewarm Pepsi rejuvenates the inner summer child. My stomach is rounder, clear roles and I immediately refuse to look down again in a strange sense of embarrassment. Wasn't I supposed to be in love with myself again? Am I not my own savior, in that regard? 

I feel I have grown stagnent, and I cannot provide anything meaningful for the audience to read. 

I've sprouted a destructive plant in the base of my spine that roots me to the unclean sheets and keep me sapping the energy from the seeds of addiction. I am the host to something that decays without mercy. 

Can you understand me?