The hair grows back into my head
as I break my own heart.
It’s like a withering snake undergoing liposuction,
or a rotten lemon squeezed dry
and the seeds planted in quicksand.
The eternal fantasy, only a thought,
not yet created into words
and resolves into less than image.
Rebirth is far from devastation;
being shoved back up the ass
before the fetus feeds in the womb.
Nothing broken; nothing consumed.
The couple has not met.
God cannot figure out who
should bear my soul.
My placement conjures up controversy,
and I have no say, no mind, just spirit
and subconscious observation.