Gandhi Was Hardcore

You are wearing all my clothes,
and you look better in them.
Your belly button is
as big as the world,
or an apple.

And it is crying.

You have cardboard boxes on your floor,
with vintage dresses, white ribbons, &
black sequins, dirty clothes from when
you used to live an island life.  We

watch the misty streets, realize they are
actually smoky, look up at the pale pink
sky, the faded neon red circle sun.  Your
eyes are perfect circles, too, and you sweat
rainbow colors in the cold.  

Everything is holy.

You have a picture of Albert Einstein
on your wall and you sit, watching him,
and let vegetables ferment in your mouth.

Your yellow chair smells like India,
your skin smells like chai, and your
piano smells like blood.

You drink the juice of celery sticks
as big as the sky, wear a parsley crown, &
white flower necklaces.  You eat the halves
of apples and bang on the piano.  The

flesh around your neck is raw, your shoes
are plaid.  Your carpet is covered in crayons,
and you pick little white things off your legs
during the day.  Half the time you hallucinate

you have fingers.  You make monkey noises in the
grass and in the flowers.  Your hands turn clear
and green, your eyes turn to iridescent crystals,
your nails to actual nails.  You are deaf because

there are pearls in your ears.  You are blind
because you wear makeup.  You are dumb because
you are dizzy because you never eat enough.

You are on a diet because you are sad.  
You are in love because you are sad.
You have rainbow circles under your eyes
because you are sad.

You are sad because you are sad.

Bubbles land in a line on your back,
they stay there like leeches,
they flatten like tar spots,
they seep into your skin and tattoo
you permanently.  There are oceans
under your fingernails, and sometimes
the tide is higher, sometimes it is
lower.

You experience mock hunger,
and the cows laugh at you.
You see Frida Kahlo in the
daylight, and cringe.  

You can count how many books
you have by Ayn Rand until you
start throwing up.  

You pull out single hairs at
a time, and eat them slowly
like some succulent dessert.

You sing the gospel.

You meet men online, text them
single words like: "no"

You decide to kill yourself.
You tie flower stems into a noose,
try to hang yourself.
You kick the chair from under your
feet, and end up sitting in the chair.
It's okay though, because you are a little
more dead now than you were before.  

Flowers are dead too.

You feel guilty,
guilty enough
to try again.