The Pretentious Ego
I fell and bruised my ego,
but it was prosthetic, still, at best.
Its schistic cries are echoing—
abrasive, but not loud.
Please pick my teeth out one by one
with your campus, freshly tilled.
Pickle them in fluids fished from folds of flesh unfound.
Please dress my wombs in plastis wrap
with p'roxide underneath
and sodium bicarbonate
to bleach the blemished parts.
Amounts and mounds of maliced mounts
are milling through our minds
and bouncing back our blue abashèd-
ness with blackened hearts.
Let's budget both our boyhoods
and get rid of garish gaud.
Our girlishness is golden but
still preferably gone.
My goal is to gain consciousness
in this coma called a cult.
You, altruistic alchemist,
calls callous calloused calm.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (2 so far!)
Average reader rating 5.00/5
This makes my head hurt, but in a good way.
- #370 Posted 7 years ago
- 5 out of 5
What Ethel said haha
- #381 Posted 7 years ago
- Published 7 years ago and featured 7 years ago.
- Story viewed 13 times and rated 1 times.
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