equally dystopian and vaginal endings 001
Pale cacti green is still on my cheek from this morning’s hurl.
Disgust disguised as rage disguised as victimization splattered in the bowl.
When I feel its fingertips
awkwardly, casually petting my extraterrestrial shellfish, I can’t deny the rupture.
Opaque slime. Thick slime.
My face is crusted. My eyes jar open when I hear the cheery voices sing, “Oh, soon.”
Pieces of me are preserved in the ol’ ziplocked bag. I slipped on the ol’ cookie-cutter ride.
My hands are dressed in gloves made out of wrinkled flesh.
My throat is closing in.
I feel the rupture.