My hair is falling off in clumps of scalp,
whatever I'm not tearing off by myself
rots off the top of my head and slides
down my face through the power of gravity.
My face is peeled clean off the skull
as I walk against the dusty wind,
leaves plastering onto my bloody frame.
I lost my clothes and wore my filth instead.
My tongue is a withered weed root
from biting, holding, and leaving
it out of practice for twenty years,
leaving a bloody little coil, a rat tail.
My sex has melded into my body,
smooth like a doll's. A self-made
eunuch, my home is an accidental
nunnery. I could've lost it but I didn't.
I'm younger than rosebuds
but somehow older than the sun.
I wore my filth in the light of day
I wore my skin like a plastic bag.
YOU ARE READING
Glimmers Of Waste
PoetryWhat I leave behind, what I throw out the car window, and what I leave in piles for others to find and use. Every once-beloved blouse, every strand of hair, every used pad, all thrown out all the same with good and bad memories. Waste to be shed. A...
