the mirror swallows me.
caverns where my eyes should be.
frigid water, smelling of sulfur.
only vexatious hunger
could be more pungent.
the demon says,
“I’ve seen tombs more effulgent.”
weak hands find my face in reply,
thus obscuring it from the spy.
I’m contorted like an ill-promise,
all specious with verbal jaundice.
like a beast in a hell of headlights, locked in dumbstruck torpor.
held prisoner by a life still proving that it’s worth clawing for.
and it seems that this tawdry beast has the best of me.
what’s the use of grappling with such sharp entropy?
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