there’s a beast.

It purrs, pawing at my pores
in the dim light of dawn, claws
carving into my cheek. I’m caught
like tilapia, thrashing
to and fro in a fish
farm in Honduras,
snared by its incessant, interminable
hunger and boredom—

There’s a beast.

It goes on and on,
a carousel neverending
adorned with thorns, blinding
lights and chains
thrown over mares and calves
rearing their heads in silent
screams as the powerful play
goes on—

There’s a beast.

A beast, who holds me close
in the dim lights of dawn and dusk,
wraps around me like a noose;
not breathtaking, but waiting
for the moment I snap,
fall and collapse in a heap
like melted crayons, bright reds
and blues and greens turned to mud—

There’s a beast.

I made it—raised it, catered
to it with salt-stained cheeks
and hips bleeding red;
I create the gnawing
want, bend to its gluttonous
will, dance for its numbing
applause, but here’s what gives
me pause; it’s the drug

of early morning, the pink-
maybe-yellow, hesitatingly painted clouds,
my little brother’s snores resonating
one room over, and that beast?

will have to wait.


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