Cyborg
I’ve been black-taped up like a warrior.
Before that, I was forced to study my upheaves
That morning amidst the red pepper phlegm and the rice so full
Bodied it would have exploded my stomach for sure had I been a pigeon
That morning as I wretched in the writhe of waking up in the morning
The brown liquid covering my eyes cleared to see
A regular shape amidst the sick amoeboid remnants of a healthy dinner
Tiny white balls, stick together, like sterile ant eggs, escaping the fibers
Of a depleting gray shell, the label R158 deteriorating
Just as I slowly deciphered that it wasn’t The Future
It wasn’t some kind of spy device, a mosquito microchip.
It was the slow-release
Anti-vomit medication
Swallowed minutes before
Just opening, just late to the party: wedding or funeral.
I’ve been black-taped up like a warrior.
i don’t use words like bitches
the amount of times your name’s been damned
we’re surprised you’re not in hell already
let me tell you, boy, you sure have a weird
way of showing you care
put that stern look on your face, adjust the invisible
glasses and declare, “I am worried about your health.”
‘cept you speak nothing like worry, you speak chide
you speak morning-after-fucking breath
and every day i am thankful i’ve always left your bed before i made it to
your dungeon of bitches
you make me so perverse
i forget sometimes if i’m coming out of a cocoon
or fighting your yello’ ordinance
this is not the me you fell in like with
and you can bet you had a hand in it
still got five fingers, boy?
flashback
looming luminating oscillating scathing
willows in the weeping dill
it tastes well, it tastes like soil after the rain
but will i refuse it soon
for it reminds me of too many dark kitchens
full sun, lights on, you would bathe me in the kitchen
i think i can even know what my own eyes looked like
so wide
so wide
not a caress but a gentle kill
scrape dirt into my esophagus
wilt wilt.
What we do to children.
Originally Published January 30, 2014