your smile,  your sin.
your laugh, a game.
your eyes, lies.
your body, your shame.

inside, you're troubled.
yet your facade has no flaws.
you've played so long at knife point,
that they've forgotten your claws.

I ask you not to keep me, Lord,
I've no fear for the coming storm.
My life has led away from harm
My resting place is safe and warm.

Instead, my God, I beg of you
To keep all those that seem but lost
The broken, sick and destitute,
The battle-scarred, the tempest-tossed.

If some great blessing you had planned
To cast on me, I don't deserve.
Instead bestow that act of love
On those the world sees under-served.

My feelings are unprocessed quinoa being **** out in whole chunks.
I stare at them in my toilet bowl of a brain.
"huh, you look exactly the same... maybe a little *******"
They say those words back to me.
Savage little beasts.
They tell me my body was supposed to take them in, absorb them, and be healthier.
Well, I was always taught to try , try,  again!
So I valiantly scoop my handful of **** from the toilet and scarf down my quinoa emotions... they taste even worse the second time around.
I cross my fingers as I gag down the last bit.
Will swallowing my emotions clog me up?
Maybe this time I'll be emotionally constipated, again, for weeks!
Until my insides internally combust and paint these frustrating  yellow walls around me **** brown,
To match the matte nails I got last Wednesday.
Or maybe it'll induce explosive diarrhea!
And I'll **** out every thing lining my insides until I can't even feel my metaphorical *******, while word vomiting my secrets to people I will later deeply regret.
Or maybe, just maybe,
My body will do what it's supposed to do,
And my enzymes will ferociously come to my rescue!
Maybe I'll feel it all being broken down inside me,
And released.
Released.
I'm so sick of eating ****.

Me:
Is it all my fault?
The way I feel?


Monsters:
Of course, you are sensitive, stupid, and naive.
You are making it worse and worse.
It's all your fault. Every last bit.

I think about you often and the terrifying depth of your hollow eyes.
I’ve cradled my head in your forgiving hands for many blue moons.
The moons that sing the blues of all my desires…
My emotions run in circles, falling into a puzzling continuum.
I could tell you a thousand times on the top of a mountain peak of your radiant beauty and nimble bones.
Your whispers spill into fountains of youth, where you gift the most genuine beauty as easily as you take it away.
I stare into the reflection of you wrapping my flaws around my neck in a mirror of truth.
I pray to the sky for a cure to this illness called love-
obsession:
It cripples my mortality. 
I believe that you love me too by the way you lure me into your lair of dark phenomena.
For you, Death, I will give my soul, as long as I have your love.


© 2016 D.M.V