The gap between the moonshine and the twisted sack of bones
sparkles like nonsense on the ribs in her back
jutting through the skin like a day dream.
107.
Then came the floods of sweet of sour of sickness of health
of half stones and weighing scales,
comfort eating
(jesus christ)
I feel like I've turned into a sofa.
My upholstery is damp and curved in brown colored rainbows
as my sallow skin stretched
like wings over the shape of an expanding globe
And she with death for a name
slaps Fiona in the face,
just like she deserves.
Self motivation and control
drowned in the water
and all the misery was sympathy gone wrong
which he never gave her, which he never even knew she wanted.
The moon only reflects the light
and the alcoholic glasses will refract it
bending her shape in the mirror until she's morphed
breathing in to convince herself she's just that thin.
But like moonshine itself its nonsense.
Its make believe as the skin snaps back folding
like inch wide crepe paper
over the long hidden hipbones
and the harp ribs
which played like a bow along the collar bone
attached by a leash to her image of perfection.
Moonshine whispers in her ear
an alter ego that caresses her words
and tortures her soul
laying her body on the rack
stretching it thinly
like my personality is just a rolling pin.
I'm bruised by my own battles
The mental strain is etched in winter
and I shiver,
but I don't shiver enough.
Somebody carve this off me
I want to be a cave painting
A hospital bed
A safety pin
A sword fight
Somebody else.
I am not sick.
Sometimes I wish I was.
Sometimes I wish I could be.
Adding your comment:
