I don't want what they want anymore.

A bench of iron sits in my stomach like lead
Screaming seagulls throw their wings against my skull
They wheel and writhe and wander through my head
The gears in my fingers creak with agedness
It feels arthritic and I'm the tender age of twenty;
The bittersweet herbs of passion form ruins.

A window is stuck at the flank of my brain
His fingers tap the ledge of it, tentative,
My window is stuck fast. It won't open.

He sighs and amplifies the current situation
I want to kill him then, I want to do him in.
Instead we ride the sidewalk with our shoes
In solemn regard we discuss important issues.

I can't bear the flocks as they whirl and turn.
Their storming causes me incredible concern.
But they're stuck inside my head as the iron
Grates inside my belly, causing an ugly fire'n
My gear-oriented digits are sore and are worn—

My seagulls soar high with abject demur
He tugs on my window with likewise vigor
I want to kill him again, I want to do him in.
I take a corner fast as my window flies open
I stop for thirty-two seconds. I turn on my axis,
Liquid war pours from my every orifice
I consume him entirely, wholly heartless.