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Rotten Eggplant MAG
I crossed the bridge
where the water was pink,
laden with animal carcasses,
the small skeletons exposed.
And from you,
I extracted a globe,
warm to touch when I was cold,
as you told me your dreams
of the other side.
But your room was a litter box;
through the excrement,
I crawled.
And I was puking eels,
neon, glowing eels,
all over my favorite skirt –
so delirious
when you reached for my hand,
I was peeling layers from my nose,
dark, crusty raspberry bumps:
I took your hand in mine
and let you feel the bruise.
© Anonymous
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