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.