There is a fat old lady with a mustache
using a thigh-master on my lungs.
She is too fast and too slow- never in rhythm.
I beg for mercy.
She can’t hear me over the television.
My eyes are controlled by
A few stupid fairies who still can’t make sense of the world.
They like to draw on the backs of my eyeballs
and poke me with their tiny arrows.
My brain is actually one of those plastic globs
made to look like fatty tissue
that they keep in doctors offices
to teach kids how much 5 pounds of fat really is.
But my heart is real.
A young girl curls her naked body around it.
She is cold and hungry and sad.
Sometimes the heart warms her,
sometimes she freezes it.
She won’t let me near it.
Somewhere deep behind my pancreas,
There is a crazed woman locked in a tiny cage.
I’ve shoved her deep down
But I can hear her…
I feel guilty keeping her in
She knows I can hear her
She knows that I care
She pleads her case
Over and over.
She tells me that she is the real me.
She can never be free.