Winona Forever

My sick is not a thin-limbed willowed-out shell lines bambi-eyed nicotine-lipped Winona forever,
Kate-Mossed-baby-briefed, or any other sour girl Johnny Depp once fucked and flecked back into life. The thing living in me
can go six days without a shower and stink the funkiest fuck out deep from your lungs. Watch this girl eat a bowl of
cake batter unbaked then cry into the soft tuft of her pup's patient underbelly, then at the cusp of 3AM, beneath
the shadowed moon, she'll pray to something safe, some thing in which she has no faith, "keep me hear; keep it stay"
8 AM, it is the sun's bitchass-bright-assed-LA bleached-fucking-freaked-out teeth, a grin to grit down deep into a bite
and through bedcovers can be pulled overhead,white alien rays still slick their sunny tongues deep in.
Look to her nails, splintered and yellow, sheets soaked from fervor, the morning an incision her skull cannot recieve.
The bleeding, the bleeding out, a stitch, a fist to fill, a graft of bone, each day, no day, the brain ever-hysteric,
ever a-giggling, a refuse, a rebate, a refute. The damned, the ugly, we are, the 99% of the 99% of it all,
still sick, we sick, still sick, still sick. My sick, still sick.


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© 2018 Monica Lewis