how i get myself killed

there are worse ways to transition than being consumed

but the absolute certainty in the yearning for flesh

(hot, tender, writhing to be skinned from this unfamiliar vessel),

for it to be torn by canines and devoured—

brought to sanctuary. 

my teeth must have been carved from stone

for the pleasure of parting your flesh, i think as

wails voracious with an immoral need to be ingested

and rescued from the depths of hell,

yet laced with the desperate perversion of wanting it—

savouring great delight. where did you learn to dress your shame?

has nobody known? what might your mother say? your father?

think about the priest. does the church board their windows

and barricade the doors?

does god still answer when you call?

and my body—

body is an empty shell, a home in which a suitor

does not reside. look at the pounds reflected back:

inside twists and churns at the sight. straw-like locks

of hair prickle the crevices underneath an arm;

a doll, seemingly porcelain, but not really.

supple breasts, fat-filled and hanging stare back at you

in reflection; a woman, but not really.

inside you itches to crawl out. we can see it at the cracks, the seams.

father doesn’t look at you the same; he knows.

mother’s eyes no longer meet your’s.

the new dresses and skirts she buys pile dust and rot

in the bottom of the closet,

pink chewed by moths in circles like the bubble-gum it’s named after.

the brown of the dress melts like chocolate in the carpet.

there stays a reminder,

gooeyness hardened into the floor of what i am not.

the porcelain is crushed underneath the weight of this

love i have for you. all-consuming with its ardor,

and so what else should i do but rescue you

from the torments hell has put you through?

what else could i do but bring you—

porcelain pieces and all—

back home?

i was listening to ‘sleep talking’ & ‘how i get myself killed’ by Indigo de Souza on repeat while writing this. it took me so long to write staring at my doc until i changed to paper and things were so much better when i just let myself write and not think. this is influenced by what i’ve been thinking/feeling for a bit.