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The Fall (ambiguous)

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I drip
like sin boiled in honey
(eat my sadness away)
while it settles
between my synapses,
between my thighs;
A tickling
funeral pyre gag.

The rum-butter shrunken 6-pack rings
until my fins are gutted and scarred,
the ache to be beautiful
curling nonchalontly between my shoulderblades.
Dissociative disappointment,
and kerosene
pick-pecking scale by scale
in friendship bracelet amusement innocence
until there is nothing left but
my breasts,
Kurt Vonnegut,
and the eloquent way you rape my earrings.


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