dear painted mask slipping off my face, wet mildewed socks clinging to weary feet, molasses on my hands shrouded in gloves of lace – you in the cracked mirror, you rotten, rancid, discarded piece of meat.
o, knotted wicked web of thread, the faucet of my eye leaks. emily’s funeral in her head – it took three weeks
to admit the rot the plumber missed. to cry when the evening light is dying – to say that i’m sad – to say i’m ******. to watch and feel my circuits frying.
blinded and fooled and beaten, i ran and crashed into not-love – maybe i’m an idiot, because i still can’t tell a pigeon from a dove.