PULP PLEASE

YOU DIED A FEW MONTHS AGO AND I CAN STILL HEAR YOUR MONOTONE FOOTSTEPS STOPPING IN FRONT OF ME TO ASK ME IF I WANT ORANGE JUICE WITH PULP AND I CAN STILL FEEL THE TEXTURE OF YOUR FRECKLED WAXY SKIN AS YOU LAID DEAD ON YOUR SWEAT-SOAKED MATTRESS AND WHENEVER THE ROOM IS QUIET I CAN HEAR THE RESIDUAL ECHO OF YOUR LABORED MOANING WHENEVER THE DOCTOR WOULD HASTILY TIE THE CATHETER TOO TIGHT TO YOUR LEG AND I CAN STILL TASTE THE ACHE ON MY TONGUE WHEN I WATCHED THE FUNERAL HOME LOAD YOUR BODY BAG INTO THE BACK OF THEIR HEARSE AND I AM STILL EXPERIENCING ALL OF THIS LIKE IT WAS YESTERDAY AND I'M CONSTANTLY WONDERING IF I'M PSYCHOTIC OR JUST MASOCHISTIC