La la la.
I sometimes try making cakes at home.
Using the remains the day has left behind.
I don’t need food coloring. It bleeds itself red.
Intestines, raw pieces of flesh…
I am almost already part of it.
This greasy world -
blood and guts crawling inside my chest,
making me want to vomit my own entrails.
The cakes are red.
They are me, they are the streets, they are everything
that dies and never leaves.
I stir.
I fold.
And somewhere, my own body whispers back,
a hollow echo of human carnage.
I sometimes try making cakes at home.
Using the remains the day has left behind.
I don’t need food coloring. It bleeds itself red.
Intestines, raw pieces of flesh…
I am almost already part of it.
This greasy world -
blood and guts crawling inside my chest,
making me want to vomit my own entrails.
The cakes are red.
They are me, they are the streets, they are everything
that dies and never leaves.
I stir.
I fold.
And somewhere, my own body whispers back,
a hollow echo of human carnage.