My boyfriend is a self-proclaimed pig, my children ungrateful in these dirty rooms,
me joyfully, joyously saying, yes, it is okay to eat me from the inside out, the outside in, all of the sweet meats and vinegar,
the black, sinking eyes.
I am a soft edged horror,
whore films, flim-flam,
shackled by institutional rules,
feed me gruel—waste paper baskets of steno-torn reams,
of untouched stacks,
no witness to the madness of grandiosity,
dunce, crown cone, jack-in-the-box princess, just a sliver of moon—
A cell like human life-force in a flat as envelope phone,
all of the stored numbers and not a single do I dare call in the crisis of it all
What do I really think of you?
I am alone in this positive march and in my mind I imagine a punch to the side of the head would feel better than the fake smile of I am here to serve you!
I am here to ask you, annoyingly, how your day was, to serve you Mexican soup of Cinco de Mayo, to wash your clothes, write worry, I love texts, send out mother’s day, black licorice and make sure there is always a steady supply of old fashioned vanilla ice cream,
the fact is, I’m used to not being loved, surrounded by greedy pigs, it’s a dance I understand.
**From May of 2019, a purse notebook I’m reading from.
PS: steemit reformat's my carefully placed lines :(
PSS: There is something to learn in having fully loved a black pig, even if he follows you here from another realm~
Photo Credit: Ed Van duijn/unsplash