my insides, O my insides. you icy finger, you feed the politician in me -- tell me how odd people are, will you? tell me to detach and shed the malaise that adjoins. connect the disconnection. a long slide of intestine, a wicker basket skull, a pump in the gut, an eagle in the eye. a rib cage filled with wet insects. my mouth can't console. i've devoured my heart and grew a tree. my tree is alone so it swallows itself. trees never shed.
i refuse to shed myself. can you tell? i've got shingles and shutters and cabinets filled with bones. i've got pockets of cells i don't know the name of. you know, our phases are pimped by the superior manufacturer -- cells like withered witch hands binding our thoughts and our reactions. a schizophrenic concoction, this. a pendulum frozen to the left. a broken filter's plump, egotistical twin. poppy buds planted on bleached cotton. these things i know as well as i know people.
my belly houses fruit punch. my brain is an unsettled dog. my spine is a stack of broken dishes glued back together carelessly. i am more.
i am. i am who i am, that i was. a sweet knife to dissect and reassemble.
