Rough Edges
I think I like my brain best in a bar fight with my heart. I think I like myself a little broken, with rough edges, a little harder to grasp. I like poetry better than therapy anyway. The poems never judge me for healing wrong.—Clementine von Radics, 'Mouthful of Forevers'
My soulmate is
Lost in the rough edges of
Parchment.
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 panifulistic 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.”
An eating disorder
Made out
Of swedish fish
And seaweed
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 foreign
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 marshmallows.
I dig deep into
My throat, naked
And ruined.
I am my own cemetery
As my diet pills
Sit on my dresser
Singing to me,
“We love you, take
Another. Well make
You feel better.”
So I pop another
In the magic mirror
Of my own horrors.
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