the punchline is me, dead.

My room is cold and it's probably
because I sold my soul to my hair
dresser the time I had said "do
anything, please, make me feel
lesser than who I really am" - a
jester in a suit made of mockery
and pottery and poetry and all of it
has cracks straight through it and
I've never learned how to undo it
so I'm stuck with a broken mirror,
unable to see but still able to
pick out my flaws and, damn, ain't
that what they call reflective?

And now I have no eyes so I bet
the sky is more beautiful than ever—
it probably thinks it's so clever,
leaving me eager and starving for
all it's majesty but bowing is for men
and I spend my days carving out
my own organs with the dull scissors
in my room - you know, the ones I
only use to cut flowers in bloom; maybe
that is why they grew in my lungs,
'cause you know I love the colors but
now I just can't breathe like I've been
pressed and wrung through a machine.

How much longer will this ache take
and how much more will it be from me
- why aren't them other kids feelin'
all this quiet rage, why aren't they
gettin' those bids too—the ones filled
with nasty teeth and nasty hands beggin'
for somethin' I don't wanna give, don't have,
don't have to give up anyway but they
all got somethin' to say and they
force me to listen as if I ever cared
about what they say they're missin'; look,
I ain't sorry for all the apologizes that
took root in my mouth and stayed there,
goin' no where, but I'm payin' for it
with a garden in my stomach so now you
have something from me so just leave
me be with all the flowers that grow
in cold air and I promise, in the morning,
when the sun shines through windows
I can't see, that I'll still be there.