The gravel in her tongue atrophies
along with the rest of her body, lurid
and every bite in is just another bite out.
There is a road that travels down her throat
and each tongue that rides it through
feels the sick burn
of falling over cold, tiled floors
kneeling in front of dirty toilet sinks
spanning the garish ceiling –
two curved fingers in her mouth.
She makes herself out to be an addict
and the furtive scars on her knees
as they graze another couch
confirm her dying body is really dead.
Every tonic mixing in
these bloodstreams curving
she isn’t addicted to drugs – that would be an easy addiction.
Her mouth is a sin;
a sin to function with needles of self-despair
sticking in, breathing out
rest a little
purge another round.
Her friends are her nails
pink and soft and uncut,
and her family in her belly
can see the scratches they carved all around that throat.
A masterpiece! Cut it out
hang it on her office wall,
she works for her stomach, anyway.
Photo Credit: H o l l y. Flickr via Compfight cc
