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do not feed me —

i am unmotherable.

gravedigging for lobotomized licentiousness:

bad, bad dog

yet again, and interminably.

they forgot to tell me

i was made wrong:

is it supposed to feel

like being eviscerated, mom?

is the crushed little grey squirrel

on the pavement turned upward

worthy of less than the red one,

and its limber buoyancy,

and the knowing of its tenacity:

confident it will not be caught

in the teeth of any bad,

bad, bad dog?

and they forgot to tell me

that the hydra too has regenerative power —

you cannot sever the heads

without eating the heart.

its determination ratcheting up

to grow alongside a tentative flourishing

parading itself in skinsuits

made from wholesome devotion:

a grotesque gentleness

and misguided softening:

i lose it all. gutted,

interminably, for nothing.