|Home: Poetry: Ivy McKnight: Cyclical|
Like the fetid stench of sewer gas,
And strips my ego,
Into pea-green plastic strips,
Which I feed on at breakfast.
Then I chew on my faults,
Until my skin has puckered,
So you’ll run at the sight of me,
And I can cry myself to sleep,
Because I like the taste of my tears,
In the morning.