For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris. Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor, as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.
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