Rough Edges
I am not a well-rested morning.I am a sleepless night, the scream of a fire alarm at 2am.There is no Northern Star in my galaxy of wrong turns and sudden stops, just mile after mile of winding road. I am not the softness of a sunrise, or the sound of breaking waves; I am hot sand at noon, cotton sheets against sunburned skin.You want the thrill of a beckoning glance, but I am a roll of the eyes and an impatient sigh.Always a little too much, but never quite enough; I’m not as easy as you wanted me to be.— molliefox, Everything Else
My soulmate is
Lost in the rough edges of
Parchement.
Caught in the crossfires
Of army guns, gas masks,
Broken bones, and burned
Love notes.
I don’t believe in love like the
Back of my hand that
Is covered in sharpie
I love the platanic love
I have for others,
When I write poetry
With the form of
Written diets and
Diet pills.
They sit on my
Dresser telling me
“They love me, they
Cherish my body.”
A eating disorder
Made out
Of swedish fish
And seeweed
Desires.
I pop them down
My throat like
Clown that blows
Up balloon animals
In the form of
The rainbow.
I cook them
With ever sweet
I taste on my native
Tongue that twists
And slips on payapa
On my forgien
Lips.
I carry diets on
Me like extra
Weight, extra
Pounds that
Carry on my
Heart like
Sweet strawberry
Tarts.
Kiss me with
Kisses of hershey
Chocolates and
Roasted marshallows.
I dig deep into
My throat, naked
And ruined.
I am my own cemetery
As my diet
p
ills
Sit
on my dresser
Singing to me,
“We love you, take
Another. Will make
You feel better.”
So I pop another
In the magic
mirror
Of
my own horrors.
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