The fight to change

your life takes time.

You get caught up

in the flux and flex

your pecs to show

your defense

from everyone

but you–your enemy

for life.


You get away with murder

 and call it suicide.

Days wasted resisting

irresistible forces,

just as many spent

yielding to them,

leave you desiccated,

a musty husk.


Weak enough at last

to fail to run away

from that glorious defeat,

the one in which you lose

everything in time

to lie down forever

in a box

like a broken doll

your soul’s outgrown,

a toy no girl in the world

would play with anymore

as rigor mortis sets in,

you become silence.


Now the maggots

finish groveling, saying grace.

They lift their tiny heads

to take that first, fetid bite

and murmur like hungry,

baby gods:

“Let there be light.”


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