Like a puncture to my lungs
Darted with poison and spite
Your words find me.
And though my nails may scrape against
my cold levitating ceilings.
I can never dig through.
Lurking only in the shadow,
of your miasmic cloudscraper.
You say your tea tastes sweeter,
Than the honey I forgot to put away.
Do you think it doesn’t hurt me,
To be always looking up?
To watch the sparks,
Of denigration from your soliloquy,
Settle like dandruff my shoulders.
Swaddling me with papier-mache distortions,
Layers of endless demotion,
Pinned with inky spears that paint me
An imposter in my own skin.
That paint me subhuman.
(c) Accidental Tentacles 2016