ever since my hospital stay when the wind melted to a shriek and it was swollen with rain
I have always turned your words over like the sour insides of a citrus pip —
if only so i never again came up sweaty and covered with rind
and I’d rather feel the sticky pearl of a razor blade than false mercury comforts whispered deep within my ears
for minds as young as these are still floury dough, where common sense need not rise and the oven never gets cleaned
and sometimes when cracked mirrors whisper to me, I remember the time I swore blind that glass shards made short work of my anatomy and i got head from a blowtorch because that’s how it feels to look sometimes
with melted threads the same consistency as butter, and do i feel worms breeding in my mouth?
I remember staring at five-thirty A.M eyes burning at a chalky ceiling and wishing wanting dreaming to be exactly like Harley Quinn,
brain swollen with electro shock and chucked out of windows this actually happened, oblivious to the sneering spittle spat by snakes to let her slither back into his hole
he does it too well, you see
you would think violence is never the answer but masochists and sadists work deliciously well together
honey, it’s potent liquid — and when sloshed into froth, that’s when you get the really good stuff
and she bores her gaze into him and it’s wildfire, real black December shit
superstitions need not apply
and still she rocks shut like a clam as he collects the shells still clung to her and they come away red
he still refuses to give her beeswax kisses
because he’s dug too far into the ground to remember what honey even looks like
but she insists he can — he just has a little trouble stirring the pot
the same bullshit that dribbles across my insides like tapwater and spills over in hungry gusts of wind,
and even Plath could never weave a sentence spat from ink blots and black curtains to drape over my shoulders properly
when everything I own fits on two opposite extremes
(I never did tuck snugly into a label)
and one seems more ridiculous than the other, does every aspect of me need to be analysed?
something’s got to be broken so you have to fix it, but what if it’s not that easy,
and didn’t Shakespeare once say the world’s a stage?
I’ve always been fond of him, not in the biblical sense but fond still
waspish they call me, and if I am waspish you’d best beware my sting
all yellow-and-black edges ready to poke and stab in the dark, the sharp barb to put out a claw and change into something else (the perfect little woman)
although I’ve never identified with any one label at all — a distorted political tool, and doesn’t everyone reject notions about themselves that are so plainly obvious?
oh world what have you done you’ve allowed humanity to piss all over you, and what a crime it is
humanity, you should be ashamed of yourself with singed hair’s entwined, looped through playful balls of string, of cock and misty vagina not fit enough for breeding but let’s do it anyway
it occurs to me that I am humanity
Fuck I’m talking to myself aren’t I