You have a sickness

In so choosing
to not keep your
sad little delusions
to yourself,
you've only ripped open
clothes too small for your sickness,
your intestines spilling out,
fallacies so thick you can't see white,
green muck pooling at your feet

I feel so sorry for you, dear,
but not really. You are trapped
in a grey suit, with cardboard
technology that won't
make love to you, kiss your eyelids
thankful for your warm office whilst you
wag your finger at the passionate
that lose voices to your deafened ears