Black- soil-stained hands,
Weaklings at my feet,
Today we thin beets
So the others grow strong.

The beet is my spirit animal
In food form, but
Not the weak kind-
I am the strong one that is good enough
to eat.

The beet is discrete
The beet is a vicious vegetable
The beet is humble, *****,
Beneath most humane things
The beet is ugly, absurdly
Colored.
I often wonder how it could be natural
But the I remember Hell is natural too.

I dream of beets
They are at dusk and dawn
In the desert monsoons,
In menstrual cycles,
In the blood of my enemies I want to slaughter,
Then taste.

When I roast and handle my beets, they are the
blood on my hands I can't rinse off
The black soil remains under my nails indefinitely
When I’ve forgotten about the beet,
The beet has not forgotten nor forgiven
me
I **** and **** and spit red
The beet never leaves me
Beet, please, never leave me.

Finger tips gained much weight,
As it slumbers in stagnant pulse.

Eyes no longer can blink to close the sorrow of empty solace,
While caretakers play the same video for the last decade of existences.

Like an empty glass of wine,
Does he reflect nothing to anyone.

Just a lifeless shell,
They do not see him!

A void without a soul,
and living without a life.

Don't give up on him,
He is aware of people's view of the vegetation.

Consciousness still lurk around the body,
He is not a vegetable!

PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
pacing
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”

running
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy

the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out

falling
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.