The Feast
The bed sheets wrinkle up
to their usual comfort zone.
It is never my own.
Like extra pounds
that fail to match
some weighted acceptance;
trendy styles
draped over thin
and flawless skin.
Perfection;
an elusive thing,
flawed and non-existent
without contrivance.
Cleverly captured
then mercilessly projected.
Media's vapors
drench the surface
first,then on through
vanity's young blood,
worming its path
down waiting sinkholes
in brittle psyches.
Pretty viruses
of vomit and despair
feast in addicting
hunger towards death.
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