feisty

like potatoes we boil
like potatoes we rot
and sprout.

we are but vegetables, instilled with sexual desires.
maybe animals.

animals, with presumed dignity.
animals, with books
animals in pretty clothes and heeled shoes.

you live alone,
you die alone,
but you never get spat on alone.

you can stay there and decompose,
live among your feces.

you can pierce your lips,
or your balls
it might make you feel dangerous.
you can put on ugly red lipstick
it might even make you feel wanted.

the thing is though,
we are little specks of pepper,
we make things sneeze
we add ugliness to pure white cream.
cream of the crop.

we are unneeded.
so what else is new?

I never killed anyone,
but i imagine it must be thrilling.
I never took heroin,
but i imagine it must be like a roller coaster
I never wrote a song,
but i imagine it must be disappointing
never went to paris,
must be cold.

your English is good,
but your words are despicable
they burn me.
and then salt the wounds.

I used to think I was a writer,
an artist,
an intellectual,
a woman.
but being a rotting potato isn't that bad.