there is a wound.
lazy pus oozes down my psyche
& drips from the part of my belly that clenches when I come
inside - that is
and most won’t see it . . . I don’t want to
trying feels like squinting at the sun
dogs - growling when I try to move the past
but some smell it - crescent of bologna sandwich molding
underneath a bag in the kitchen can. A hint of rot
wafting by – like three zombies zooming past you on a bicycle built for two.
i want to ignore it but it hurts. Lingers like
cystic acne under my chin waiting to burst through
because
i just wanted to be considered pretty.
