Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium

 Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium

 

I’ve got a little chronic inflammation
camped out in my belly like it paid rent.
I feel like I over‑inflated myself
party balloon, car‑dealership, wavy man
except nobody’s clapping.

I don’t feel like my old light self,
you know the one
pre‑90‑day bender, pre‑wake‑up call,
before gravity found my forwarding address.

Yeah, I had surgery.
Now I feel dense.
Millstone chic.
Like if I took an ambitious, heroic dump
I might retire five pounds lighter
and emotionally reborn.

But no.
Everything’s tightening its belt.
There’s nowhere for the extra air to flee.
Not even a tasteful hiss.

My blood’s gone viscous.
My heart and organs are marching
to something that sounds like a funeral dirge
played by a tired band
slightly out of tune.

I’m slower.
Duller.
My knife couldn’t cut string cheese
if the cheese insulted its mother.

I’m fresh out of freshness.
Past my sell‑by date.
Like, yeah.
It’s time to go home.