Self-Loathing Burning Beauty From Eyes

My eyes will spurt drops of blood now.
I am wretched.
This dress...rented & ripped
pool of acrylic polyester rayon blend
at my scorpion venom swollen feet.
I'm one of those masochists
who steps on dangerous things
instead of walking around
with sensible grace.
I'm onion smart, turnip raw.
I'm mud puddle stagnant.
I'm the leaves littering the mud puddle.
No. I'm the bright blue laundry detergent
jug lid floating in the mud puddle.
I make as much sense, serve as much purpose...
there is no reasonable
useful beauty here
to take care of tasks
and make the baby shower punch.
Checking account balance?
Grocery list?
Registration?
Adultery?
Friendship?
Bible study?
I do
not comprehend.
Oh these keys this tapping
this muting of my yawping
maw of a heart.
This cake walk with me
scrambling for
a chair.
This brutal broom chase.
"Out of my yard! Gringa!
White girl! Don't come back!"

Tonight the losses like fast food
sauce packets in my hands.
Mockery. I cannot use these.
I'm looking back.
I'm salt on the rim.
It's karaoke night at La Casa de Fiesta.
I take the stage weary with world sag
and show them my tits.
Nobody believes me so I sing
"All The Young Dudes"
which gives them time to react
and shout
and throw things.
I'm so brave.
I've lived.
I'm evil with it.
I walk down the highway
a witch between houses
wondering what the hell happened
to my piano moon.