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.


Published by


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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s