Realization

Your hands are shaking

like a junkie's:
You're drunk on sickness

and your voice is sour.

You thought you were ugly before?
You are a rotten limb


gangrenous


putrescent.

Twisted, bent, and limp.


And now comes the thundering bombast

of empty pride
and the cling-clang-whistle

of an old parade float.

Your mouth is lined with a white-picket smile;

and across the green grass

and inside the neat yellow house

and down the old stairs


there's a meth lab.


You thought you were ugly?
Now look at yourself.

You are a mosquito, engorged

with malaria.

Your eyes are glazed

like stars
and your smile has splintered.

“Darling, my darling baby girl,
my darling, my baby”

-murmuring into your pillow,

the words like velvet on your ears-
“My darling baby girl,” you tell yourself

-because nobody else will-

“It's all gonna be alright.”


I want to show you yourself
and watch you wither.