More often than not I’m hurt,
suffering through broken toes,
biting my lips,
crippled spirit.
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
is that my love tastes like liquorice
combined with nasty bile
and it smells like lilies in full bloom.
Is there something else you’d like to know?
Or is the thought of me enough
to poison you?
I can’t get well,
Everything in me is so deeply,
Deliciously,
Fanatically disturbed,
And all this life tastes like stupid lemonade
Made out of fake plastic lemons
With spoonfuls of sugar
Made out of my blood.
And everything is dripping light,
Horrendous light piercing my eyes,
And all the sounds are trouble.
I wonder if I’ll sleep tonight
Or dream of you and cuddle
The monsters that live in my belly,
Trying to claw their way out of me.