I am a piece of shit.
I am a floor rug.
I am trampled on by the masses.
I am a flag pole planted in the ground wondering what its purpose is.
I am an unwanted drug that only gives bad trips.
I am unconscious.
I am destroyed.
I am withered away to a shitty crumb, and you find the crumb with your microscope and feed it to your husky.
I am the stool your husky shits out that rots away after three weeks of drying up in the scorched sun.
I am detached.
I am alone.
I am the mucus you picked out of your nose as a child and chewed and swallowed.
I am a cockroach on the top of your wedding cake destroying your positive outlook on the rest of your life.
I am alien.
I am minuet.
I am Ethel Falselight, and my burden is myself.