Do you think the carnivorous plants would eat my teeth?
Moss laden epiphanies writhe in my temporal lobe and the dog chewed through its chain leash.
Who the hell am I? Who the hell are you?
Who the hell tore me from my mothers white noise womb?
The butter I used to devour is coming back up, bile with a heat that outwits me, making me think it's an Alaskan winter;
I stand without a fur coat but I'm not shivering.
Gran glowers when I tell her I won't be attending mass.
I don't have the heart to tell her that I only go
for the bread and stained glass.
Energies are lobotomizing the brain of my heart
and there's a centipede using my uvula as a rope swing
into a lazy river of stomach acid and beige toned folk art.
I don't want to go into rigor mortis but it seems I already have,
my once steady hands cemented above ever-damp sand.
Pepper tears are ichor, ciphers in a draught laced tide;
souvenirs of a bitter fever dream life.
