daiba datta

tiny pieces, forgotten names but memorized faces. i'll carve you back into the figure you were meant to be.

gradually, these lamentations condensed into a large mass, until finally they metamorphosed into something completely different.

the pungency of goat shit and week old blood fermenting across street corners

a sheared off hip, and thin lips stitched shut to drown out any unnecessary condemnations

putting a candle to your figure does not put you in dismay like subtle ruin

desperate lacerations of overgrown fingernails, bites from under-developed canines

smell of fallen rain on concrete too hot to walk on, a static mind with a big smile from the burning sensation

your filthy bulbous face, and the tongue you point towards me from between your yellow teeth in dismissal

a vague resentment and a vague feeling of guilt both of which resonate together to ensure neither feels right

a self-contained mind interrupted by a spray of scalding water