poem I wrote on my phone

It is probably dedicated to that waste of creation who threw me into a panic attack that lasted 3 inconsolable hours.

It’s not hard to give me blinky chinky eyes
it’s recessive
It’s natural
I cry the Yangtze and swallow up mud
but choke on the shore

It’s not safe there
were I meant to escape,
there wouldn’t be holes in the raft.

Escape’s a craft.
I try to sculpt out my eyes
to appear less blinky,
less chinky,
but since the chisel is a mascara brush
I just make everything worse.

My lashes bleed out pollution into the river,
I cry because all life has died.
I cry because I’m drowning.

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