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Title Me, Insignificant
I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?
I am ruin.
—undermeyou
On Discovering I Am an Atheist
Suburban gods dwell in dumpsters and much like all others forget to make any appearance
They convene with the rats
Or maybe not at all
Probably not at all
Hum hallelujah
But I’ve become acquainted with the way the light hits my eyes just right
With the way my lacking seems to glow a bit brighter than the homes of the homeless
With the way that my sweat creates more miracles than I’ve seen spew out of churches
You ask me to drop to my knees
When all that I’ve learned is that falling is for standing back up
Press my shoulders with hardship
I will not pray
—undermeyou
Slowly adding art to my society 6, if anyone is interested
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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If One of Them is Dead
I planted a FOR SALE sign at the back of my throat. But what it really advertises is how the corner of my mouth and my arteries like to give away my secrets for free. It’s like trying to have an estate sale at a free clinic. It’s like I’m selling an unwanted teen-pregnancy disguised as a love letter with no postage. Like the word rape disguised as the condom failing. Hunger pangs dressed up in “I just ate”. An addict addicted to addicts claiming they just enjoy the coffee at the meetings. My tongue is a trick and a rat. Snitches get stitches. But fuck sewing her shut. Waste of thread. I’ll let her bleed out. Bite down to silence the screams. Maybe next time I won’t have to gag her.
True spit (at Riot Fest)