Defective Poem by Amber Luna

my hands, they scuffle against these restraints...this oil.
its not so much the oil as the pit,
it consumes me and my mind, slick and cool.
the slop imbues stagnant edges on the boarder line
of your cylindrical piety
bitten clean by the illusion of society.
its tainting the walls of this twisted mind of mine,
hung on hooks out out to dry,
wrenching on butterfly bowels,
clouded beneath bombilating brilliance.
a grace, a grain, a grinding sinew of frailty,
staining the discolouring that i put there for you to glimpse,
indicating an instance of tides,
drowned in perfect symmetry.
all tied to a noose that was forgetfully forgiven
.defining.
my core
my crux
my deficiency.