A discarded letter from your toxic ex

Photo by Radoslav Bali on Unsplash
My eyes once dropped like cartoon anvils
but now my cage is struck
whenever demons mock the trinity
and my cable resets
and those without early work
wake the neighbors with vintage soul tracks.

What I do is I order tacos,
I scribble while I can 
till the warm day I pop out
and somebody pops me. 

A pact was made with lesser beings
who sometimes come to my dreams
to tell me things, all useless,
but the years no longer grow heavy
and the voice who recounted stories
 of my childhood beating
and the day I slipped while running
on ice no longer talks to me.

I walk the park and I feel the park likes me,
its sun beats my face to shiny eye me
so that I'm hypnotized by its glitter
in the leaves.

I walk purples of flowers,
her beside me,
our trail emitting foliage, a forest
with grass the color of pearls.

I don't expect you to understand
the mythical creature conjured
that is my aura,
it has horns and paws.
its fur is thick 
so that if you kill my spirit
your feet can feel its rug.
You, human-like can tell stories
of how I once roamed the land,
a unipanigriffinipanicorn,
luxurious is how your guests would describe it,
in your no shoe household.

I once had respect.
I once ate mangoes with the greatest of men,
we held the mangoes up, took bites
from them and had mango parties,
we threw the mangos
and mangoes were thrown at us, 
which hit our cheeks softly.
We drank Mango wine.
We dipped our cups
into a mango pool sourced
from a mango fountain.
But I didn't know how to maneuver,
cutting into neat slices
rather than eating messy.

What I do now is I order tacos,
which,
if you think about it,
isn't so bad.

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