BE McComb Jun 4

spinach has blown
down my neck
and drifted gently
under my ribs

(i'm the salad fork carefully
rolling coffee beans
in drippy melted
warm dark chocolate)

i'm hungry but
not in the way where
my stomach growls
in the way where
i want to cry
but i've got to keep my
$20 teeth fresh and
minty at all times

the mirror
is broken

cracked in so many places
i'm more jagged lines than person
a mosaic of pieces that don't match
and parts i don't like

the truth is i
am flawed
and i will always
be flawed

and i may never
stop looking in
a broken mirror
wishing to smash
my body on its
sharpest edges

but i'm slipping
into a comatose
state of control
and loathing

(the more dead i get
the more alive i look)

when will i snap
out of this
when will i snap
out of this


stir the greens
rip the chicken
orange stings
the minty sores

chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew


take a bite
leave a bite
too much
too little
still hungry

always hungry

but it will all feel better
another ten pounds down

Copyright 6/3/17 by B. E. McComb

there is a fine line between procrastination and meditation but I can't tell the difference most of the time.

  Jun 2 BE McComb
sarah gentry

Had a coffee today
it unquestionably feeds an urge to be an addict
The sun shone brightly  and  made  me feel
the forthcoming weather would be harsh.
My freckles showing like a garland
The flowers down the street were in bloom
Yellow Irises capture a  certain light
as I pass  by

Amazing what pottering  around can do or so it seems with the 230 hits.

. .. . ... . ... . . ... ... .. .. . .
1. [Anxiety]
this is just how it goes...
physically, visibly shaking outside
my insides engrossed by a burning sensation
like fluttering fingertips kneading intestines
(just one more smoke before I can go in)

2. [Compulsion]
hail (read as: golf balls) pelting my overcoat
presently, your presence fills me with hunger...
for sapling stilettos, for maple, for oak
for redwood bandanas, for pine needle tourniquets

3. [Uncertainty]
maybe my mind is it's own separate animal
maybe, we may be distinct
maybe free will is a damndable fallacy
maybe the fangs and the claws aren't just hers/his
so, surely we come to conclusions still logical
a lion (that maybe i see)

4. [Depression/apathy/what-the-fuck-ever]

  May 29 BE McComb

One of these summers,
I'll stop cutting my pants into shorts
I'll stop spray-painting Silvia Plath stencils
over the stains of my shirts
I'll get a haircut and a real job
I'll shave the entirety
of the 90's decade
from my face
I'll let you burn
my collection of flannels
in a fire in the backyard
And smash my crate
full of vinyls
with a baseball bat

One of these summers,
I'll talk to you
about the ridiculous price tag
associated with burying
the ones you love
I'll tell you to burn me
before the flannels
in that same fire
of the backyard
Because God knows
even cremation
will put a hole in your pocket
the size of France

One of these summers,
I'll fulfill the promise
we all make upon first breath
I'll die
So burn me
and bury my ashes
beneath a Hickory tree

So you can remember me
for everything I'm not

  May 29 BE McComb

I was an ant.
I knew this every time
our eyes would meet
Every formal greeting
felt like Christmas morning
Every acceptable exit,
Christmas Eve

I was the anxiety of an eight year old,
churning and infecting
every thought with espresso,
battling the monster of sleep
the night before the morning
of endless possibility
wrapped in a silver sleeve

But the days grew longer,
and our conversations
grew smaller

Tiny hellos and short goodbyes
were your insecticides,
stomping feet filled
the gaps in between,
always above and fleeting,
but not retreating

Because the act of retreat
requires the awareness
of subject,
something to run from,
to escape

and i don't think
you ever really knew
I existed

Because I was an ant

and still am today

The ant is my spirit animal...because the turtle was already taken
BE McComb May 19

when did the
mirror break?

a different angle
for every mood
sharper lines
and harsher truths

jaggedly cut through the glass
same stripes up my sides
personal lightening storm
down my shoulders and thighs

when did the
mirror break?

when did fat stop
being a feeling
and more of just
a state of being?

Copyright 5/18/17 by B. E. McComb
Next page