They,
they call me greedy,
exclusive,
taciturn. . .

That I've learned
from my disease
--chronic listening--
which voices
I'd rather not hear.

Most of these sing song smiley faces
beat you to the punch as if they're racing
past you after a ******* badge.

You want a badge?
Well good for you.
Go online and buy one.
They said "spill your guts"
And So you spill out *******.
Thinking that you're making friends,
while I'm hard pressed to believe you
would be believed by anyone worth friending.
You want a badge? Good for you!
I'll make you a deal if you decide to buy one.
I'll pay the cost for the custom laser engraving:
"Sheriff Big ****" in the land
of      "No      One      Gives      A      ****"

Grind you up into portions.
Serve you up to the horde.
What was
temporarily
yours,
will feed
the meat
of
the future seed.
Sure enough
the scene
before the
excited mind,
the silent mouth,
shall
seemingly go
completely
unnoticed
til the matter mounts.

Give me brushes and
something colorful
not tested on
a thing
with a heartbeat
and watch me go!
I love me.
I know how
I like      to look.
Think that this
face is
for you?
Think again.
Think that      This Face
is for you      and your. . .
Think again.
Think again.

Mom,

     I'm sorry. Everything about me
you see as wrong, I
see as inescapable.

     Truth be told,
I have never wanted to escape
a thing   but you.

Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry,
Mom,

     I just don't buy into your Yeshua.

Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry
Sorry
      sorry,
Mom,

     I wear the tattoo of the sulfur cross.
And I wear it well.

you said you don't want to hurt me
yet words lash like a whip
rending flesh from the heart
what is done, cannot be undone
words cannot be unspoken or unheard
unapologetic and cold
there is no bandage for the wounds
as the blood falls from my eyes
in sulfur and ash