rhetoric is the devil.

my diet consists of moss, moss, moss, moss, moss, moss…

and its skinny like

bong rips and forgetfulness,

these things that don’t go hand in hand

but just eternally seem

to pare and hem, till

'til there's nothing left to foster,

'til the only thing left is

forgetfulness and unreapable solitude,

and them some to satisfy the glutton

of unrequited banquets— Skinny,

but bright like the ever optimist

obscuring a waning moon, dim

in comparison to what once wasn’t found,

yet still bright enough to call it lost.

INTP… huh

her words are keen 

on rains of salt,

cutting clean what

she could live without.

livin’ it up like

chicken-shits on rotisserie

trying to cauterize misery’s wounds,

wound up barbed

and hung up on 

an endless cycle, that

whosoever take the next bite

might consider our taste like human.