My monster, my mood, my voice that wanes....
You are my cancer. That festering canker that comes to a head.
The faceless malformity of my insecurities pops out of my chest, moseying past my rib cage, protruding like a green puss filled boil about to erupt on my cleanest dirty shirt.
This volcanic creation stemmed from the inability to communicate needs and wants...
Perhaps it isn't faceless after all...
Maybe half of it is squinting like eyes closed by the sun, or someone about to sneeze, or a receiver of a punch. But certainly half of it is suffering with paralysis and living a scabby, backwards blistered existence. Its face is the color of refrigerated olive oil. The kindred color of a soulless booger.
It also resembles a deformed erection of a misled penis... an angry eye... a neglected perversion.
Its grotesque soap opera plays on like an overlooked starlet's waiting for her tarnished Emmy.
It hovers. I malnourish it with positive thinking , reassurance and long walks. Its monolith like head falls flaccid when I give precedence to what my red blood pumping heart wants. And in the assembly of my woman heart, insecurities are banished and silenced.
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