This Calls for an Exorcism! I wanted to belt one of those nasty guttural screams, like a long-dead hollywood actress in a movie I’m too afraid to watch. “I hate gore” I tell people, but how poetic it must feel to be covered in the innards of a pig. Pretty, done-up face splattered in thick blood and smeared in sweat, ink and bile, perfume. I’m logical. But sometimes I’m clawing. At my eyes, and neck. Like a possessed. A panic, conceived and birthed in the manic of self-loathing. “‘I’m not a real poet’ says the poet” Said a poet, now says I. On the bathroom floor, in the dark, I shake with rage and lust for violence. Force my nails into my palms: I need to lap up the blood, that I swear pools in the basin of my fist like tears once did in the crease on either side of my nose. I’m not wailing out of pain, but the satisfaction of tearing my warming skin from my frailing bones. I have to tell my mother to hide the scissors: my gut feels awfully pierce-able. Take the towel from my long, strong fingers; I’m trying to suffocate myself. Every tendon in this body is trying to bend the wrong way. I’ve convinced my parents to order the priest, hold me down and chant a prayer. Pull the Devil out of this growing chest. Rip me open and carve me out. Unravel my intestines like a roll of film. My restless arms need the authorities to strap me to a bed and shriek in my face ‘till I come to my senses. End me, infect me, declare me brain-dead, I’d rather be numb than curling in my bed. I’m gasping and grasping at the door. I’m scared that I like it, this spirit in my veins, it never controlled me until today. So, I heard the voices over the phone, all I want is for Mama to listen. My eyes are screaming and trying their best “this calls for an exorcism!”
Roaring (Screaming) 20s It is the Roaring (Screaming) 20s. Everyone is in their own world we all think we deserve one. We are all at war, we are rotting, twisted, mentally ill. We all hate, worship, envy one another. I am grinning on the sidelines, like a Goddess above them all! Can't decipher, who is playing the game? who is manipulating the referee? I am busy admiring myself watching my shapely reflection on this mirrored ceiling as I float through the water. Gaining self awareness at ten watching grown men have revelations I had at eleven. Tell me my generation is all narcissistic teens I’d love to hear it, happy to be a part of it! Happy to watch us be blamed for destroying a planet we were labored into a mere minute ago (we are infants in this timeline) Happy to be called lazy, spoiled, incomparable to the God-like generations before us. We are going to raise children who watch the world collapse on (Apple) VR headsets. Irony tastes like my grandmother's cooking when she tells me my Peers will be the downfall! When she drove Volkswagens smoked a pack a day showered for an hour every time She and I both think its laughable how we fight the people we are inevitably intertwined with. Going down together blaming the people we pull with us (Our elders are the weighted leeches on our ankles) I am no god no savior. Just laughing at our silly flailing arms trying to resist gravity. Oh well, I suppose we are in too deep I suggest we keep kicking our bodies will surface eventually. The aliens can find our fucked up palaces.