Spit it Out

Spit it Out

we don't walk
on eggshells;
we eat them

our ingested truths
broken inside of us

jagged, unattended;
they fester in folds
buried, ignored

all that negligence
nourishment for
the eventual
rampant, piercing
infection of a being
that refuses
to forget or accept

surfacing more excruciating
than the swallowing

New Beauty

she feasts on air, insatiably hungry
for bony hips and nipples without breasts

she eats herself smaller, enemy flesh falls away
her sinewed arms hang like claws

this is not how she sees herself
her body forgets it is female

Missing Persons

the discarded wander
layered in remnants
things we cast off

shrugged from our shoulders
like ragged sweaters
full of holes and torn elbows

like all things treasured
they arrived gift-wrapped
in the film of afterbirth

slipping into the world
through the same tunnel
souls cast into a shell
foreign, cold with longing

most were happy
they'd arrived
shared the intimacy
of family whole or fractured

today he is the only one
able to contact Major Tom
his visible hand holds
a cloaked transmitter
the blue napkin in his
nostril blocks our interference

she praises nicotine
too made up for daylight
her nails betray
the street beneath them
her sweet voice sings a
wish that her daughter,
that bitch, would die

they sit like filled trash bags
poised to go out
felled by chemicals
a hunger that holds
them in between here
and no where
how do they go missing?

all good intentions
spent on other beings