"Don't leave out the graphic details."
Oh, trust me. I won't.
The gruesome, disturbing, intimacies.
The bone-chilling, hair-raising fragments.
It's almost too much to bear.
But not quite.
This vulgarity is just enough to keep them on the edge of their seats.
Every tiny, twisted moral of the story.
In between the cracks, find shining slivers of redemption.
Only to immediately cover them up with rotten deception.
Good, ***** flair. Scummy additions. Sick annotations.
Keep the masses rollin' in.
Complexity, concentration, then chaos when they want more fear.
The blood-curdling, stomach-churning truths.
The disgraceful, distasteful deductions.
We've come to the conclusion they crave this coagulation of ****.
Dark disdain eating away at the corpse of wellness.
Vermin, pests, gnawing, slobbering.
Choking on the bones of prosperity.
The decomposition of this life is what they love.
Flies, gnats, swarm. Maggots clump.
Crack, rip, slurp, gag, choke, ******* die.

I can't stand on my hand.
I will not do tricks for you.
I will not show you the splits.
I am not a one-woman balancing act.
No cartwheels, round-offs, or other crazy things.
I shouldn't have to prove to you that I am worth keeping.

I'm falling out of this.
Don't know why; how?
Things are just different now.

There's no point in fighting back.
No chance of victory.
Just admit defeat.

It should get easier.
Especially with time.
If not, he's a liar.                   (Father Time, that is)

Hennish Purple.
Cluck, cluck, cluck.
Two shoes. Eight feet.
Makes no sense.
         Picket fence?

Peaches.
Cold, stinging teeth.
Pucker up. . .
In a bad, uncomfortable way.

Sticky Armpits.
Wet, gross.
Saturated.
Radiates.

Get me outta here.
Back to the homeland.
Stuck. Stuck.
Wait. Wait.
Sweat more, please.

Okay, now we can leave.

Fast.
   Thump.
Beats.

                Need to clear my mind and
    
         cleanse my soul.

(Feel like I'm two years old)

Y'know what's funny?
Me.
I'm funny.
But not funny enough to draw a crowd.
Not funny enough for it to define my personality.
Not funny enough to compensate for my awkwardness.
Or my body.
Or my beauty . . . or lack thereof.
Not funny enough to go places because of my funniness.
Not funny enough to make other funny friends.
Yeah, I'm funny . . . funny looking!
See? That's my funny joke.
But not funny enough.

My teeth were never pearly. But slowly, but surely
they've been fading, yellowing. In my mind I've been
mellowing. But on the outside I'm cracking, as if I've
had a whacking. But maybe I have in my head, 'cause
now I'm wishing that I'm dead. With my teeth all
rotten, as if I've forgotten to stand up, walk to the
sink. It's just too hard to think. To with my hand,
grab the brush. But there's no need to rush. Except
now there is reason 'cause the pain's done more than
ease in. It's taking control and it seems to be on a roll.
My teeth start to chatter, crash together and shatter,
'til they're all on the floor. But the pain's begging for
more. It's not enough to deface me. It needs to erase
me. Pressure runs down my spine. No more can I
weather. Hurting me's fine, but killing me's better.