Dead People

There's no one here except me and a bunch of dead people. They are all the people I use to know. Use to be with. Use to be family. They use to have lunch with me, dinner with me, talk with me. We use to do laundry together. Fight over whose going to pick up the grass clippings.
It's just me down here with all my dead people. Clogging up my arteries. Whispering me into deafness. Dragging their nails through my intestines. Laughing hard at my attempts to vanquish their eyes from my life with prescription drugs in the morning and alcohol at night. I don't remember if I ever quite buried them all. Of this, I am definitely confused. Because their blood still stings underneath the bed of my nails. Their screaming of my name still jolts through my brain. I can still hear their coughs, their grunts, their clearing of throats. The thought of their sighs keeps me up at night.
I'm just down here with myself and a bunch of dead people. Don't bother turning on the lights. God knows that won't change the atmosphere. I'm just down here with a bottle of Merlot five sips away from vomiting with a too truthful sad song pathetically rolling off my quivering tear soaked lips. Don't bother me. Not that anyone every bothers someone with a bunch of dead people on their mind.
(On loosing too many family members--lets be honest--to obesity they didn't have to die just yet)