Pained paint, riddled with lard
fatty droppings, rippling so close
my cheeky toes, so fresh and healthy
my eyes, smelling stink, craving water
Who cried tears of mud, I said
i wanted no-one to answer
their encrusted screams, I scraped off their faces
revealing clean stubble and erotic peach fuzz.
no pale fingernails greet me
only scabby man claws
this is my ache, my inheritance
the gorge I have worked past my jaws.
Could you remember me, as innocent and fresh?
does the monster of my greyed-out heart beat in your tender bosom?
if there was something about me that was once more than cold
maybe that something can keep waiting, until I find it.
In response to Destructive idealism... By avalon.