“You are a bloody glutton, aren’t you”

Café au lait irises, dilate like the peak of a coca rush. 

Cinnamon skin — suddenly torched cherry red, on my apples of my cheeks.

Mouth goes cotton — inedible, used by the superficials to feel stuffed like a teddy.

Roasted bird falls from my artificially colored lips — red dye number 40

On my lap is a mash of regurgitated expired tan muddled with cranberry rouge.

Nourishment has no longevity

Gluttonous tendencies comfort, filling up my tummy as if a baby resides for 12 months.

Waiting, savoring, obsessing.

Only shove, stuff, repeat.

Spoiled words drift into the air, decayed banana peels

“I️ suppose I️ am”