RogueAgent

I paint a face on a fucking egg and put it in my mouth to chew
on, calcium crushing calcium, sunk under gooey yolk, as if it's gum,

a thoughtless long-drawn hobby. I paint a face convinced that if
I paint a face, I will have mastered friendship, except: you're 

not a real friend, I accuse as I pop it past my lips. Face, overwhelmed
by my body's compulsive living. Friend, kissed away: where, you're

quiet now, come back out? But it's a trap where nothing you put in
can ever come out again, and I remember how I have to relearn this 

despair every year in different forms. Even my fake face is alone
with the moment it just now met imperfectly and lost. Example, that 

egg in my snake stomach, from solution to snack. If a swallow means
never being satisfied, we say swallow anyway, since we know there's

an end to all of this so why not? Enjoy. Quench. Drink up. Nobody
can blame you, wanting. I paint a person on a rock and put it to

my lips as a test. So nice and cold. It'd break my teeth. I can stop
short, but my tongue takes over, over and over: I'm here, yes, are you?

Golden shovel: “Chew gum if you’re overwhelmed. / You’re in this alone. That means there’s nobody to stop you.” – Max Ritvo

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