A distorted girl, too round around the edges
no numbing mind still embedding
into the malleable mush that her
fat, clammy fingers cannot hold yet.
But let us still stuff an oversized expectation
of casual conformities, forgotten deformities
into the thick folds of her feeble soul.
Running and glazing, two birds fighting
killing the curves no camera can show.
Soft arms creaming wider than
the two lumps of unrequited skin on her cheeks.
Falling and grazing, nibs not nimble
let’s cover that wound with the soil you grow on.
Foreseen, a figure bent down and broken
shaking, sobbing, purging, imploring
dismantling into a bowl that no one knows.
We will keep the deep red, blue, green
(whatever your blood is made out of)
and build deep gashes with nudging tampering
to cut out the extra skin.
Now we have a distorted woman
with ridges along her edges
a notion of servility exuding around the
marrow, the membranes, the minute mocking brains.
She’s obsequious and fine.
Let’s satiate the hunger with words not fed –
creases crowning, you’re slowly drowning.
Photo Credit: SimpleSkye Flickr via Compfight cc
