rats gnaw at my toes
as my guts gurgle acidic
odes to empty cupboards
a dream, a joke, a life
left half conscripted by
a string of hearts not
quite won over with clumsy
attempts at ill mannered
charm unseen in the rippling
ugliness seething at the
surface
bury my scraps
in unconsecrated
soil
leave it unmarked
to defile the memory
of hope
daydreaming in the halls
of unending ache
even the ceiling looks away
from my neediness
dependent on
universal disdain
codependent on
internal shame
a discarded sex doll
dripping various
sundry fluids
over the heartvellum
displacing poetry
in an ever shrinking
display of cognitive
and moral lackings
half crazed
half dead
in the midst of
another silent
breakdown
I’m wondering whether this is written by a woman trafficked and sold into prostitution…
LikeLiked by 1 person
i won’t ever say, poetry can mean different things to different people. as long as it says something, i am content
LikeLiked by 1 person
Okay, that’s my own interpretation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
i like it
LikeLike