The Pretentious Ego

I fell and bruised my ego,

but it was prosthetic, still, at best.

Its schistic cries are echoing—

abrasive, but not loud.

-

Please pick my teeth out one by one

with your campus, freshly tilled.

Pickle them in fluids fished from folds of flesh unfound.

-

Please dress my wombs in plastis wrap

with p'roxide underneath

and sodium bicarbonate

to bleach the blemished parts.

-

Amounts and mounds of maliced mounts

are milling through our minds

and bouncing back our blue abashèd-

ness with blackened hearts.

-

Let's budget both our boyhoods

and get rid of garish gaud.

Our girlishness is golden but

still preferably gone.

-

My goal is to gain consciousness

in this coma called a cult.

You, altruistic alchemist,

calls callous calloused calm.