Eight: Bully

Feed me. A menu of magazines drooling over the hollow irises of my youth
as emerald beads swing from lie to lie, not quite believing this awkward truth.
Feel me. Fingers scratching a trembling abdomen while I, swollen and grey,
shake with a hunger for the perfect self-portrait. Listen to me as I say:
Fight me, and this unquenchable quest for straight lines and acid white
bones. Stop throwing up pats on the head and indulging rolls of the eyes.
Finally, this porcelain spirit should shatter, fall piece by dirty piece,
until I am little else but spirit myself. Heart attacked, but tongue in cheek.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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