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.
