9.11.15

Filth.

You address yourself as a load of bullshit.

unaware of your significance.

I struggle to pick the remaining scattered fragments of your ego from the trash bin.

“Here, eat.”

I say, as I force feed you words of praise and excellence.

You refuse to devour the feast of love I have laid out before your eyes.

Starve now;

ungrateful you are.

I play the sculptor’s role of putting the pieces together.

Struggling to glue your self-worth back into place.

Futility.

You are weaker than before,

decapacitated.

Drowned you are, in a pool of your sorrow;

so, drink

your sodium water.

Parched and starved.

What have you left,

Your lungs.

 

Now breathe.

~ photography courtesy of Ilse Moore