The people inside people

Help me be the anorexic I was born
to be or would die trying so,
or help me. Simply help me.
The person inside me who isn’t, though,
I’ll put in a good word for him
not as bitter as usual, or tainted
with the gloss he paints himself with
attempting poetry. Instead, help his head
cope, and pray privy to hope rather than
all pure hatred, to be precise,
the way he glares with his eyes
at beautiful things he despises.
The good long encroach people prey
upon weaker things like erections.
The merry nights and merry days
people prey upon like vultures,
good-hearted birds if you shunned away
their looks, like his, all upturned
not from detachment but from anxiety,
the one emotion felt above all.
Let for once him be the coyote
to chase so long the runner then
hug him, feel upon his yellowed jaw
and wash it off with your tongue,
or throw him lively into the sun
alive for once, or, if you must,
if you can do no else, make him run
from you as a days-long game and make up.
Make him feel some swelling in his gums,
make him feel another same-as lost person.
Whatever, however, do not think him done.

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~ by Jeremy on January 11, 2011.

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