Muscle spasms breathe
between squinted lines
and I dare plead
for scissors
to fall in ditches
paved with gravel
slicing up knees;
set me free.
This asphyxia
grasps more than rights
shapes forced through
stitches,
let's color me crimson
in a despair to recover.
Snitch snatch
and spruce flesh bound;
I can't understand meanings
where sponges suck straws
never knowing the true quantity.
I beg pardons
excuse errors
that seem to be stuck
like price tags to my ass.
No, I didn't know
living was a mirror reflection
of how one looks
singing saturated slacks
that the devil produced
to tease masturbation
and how we all "fit"
within society.
As I hope
a blister can find purpose
and produce from your sweating
and constant cry of
Will this make me look fat?
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
...'fabrication' seems kind of artificial in this context.
Is it just me, or is 'asphyxia' like your favorite word in the world? LoL
what kind of stuff? 
