Spill
for #becky
You try to divvy up yourself so you seem like an enigma asking to be solved—
you unravel so easily. I am a haruspex; let me read your entrails.
Here is a place for your brain: quote and praise the philosophers in meme form
so you and your public can easily digest them. List your grades for praise—
set up debates to engage in. See, you’re smart too—let people grasp
the depth of your knowledge and heart. Lament those you’ve lost; denounce
capitalism and classism—learn not to be an ableist bitch, like your inferiors.
Create a vision board for the life you want: eyeliner you’ll never figure out
how to apply; a fantasy closet built from boots, beanies, bones & black—
wedding dreams, and glitter dresses, show you can be girly too. ;)
Construct a collection of words so reality never reflects on you; believe you are
the prize that got away instead of the wannabe Sin City girl they didn’t see a future with.
Your most prized place: a gallery of improvised pouts. Contort your face
so that when someone says you’re beautiful they add “doesn’t even look like you.”
Try to set thirst traps; admonish men for not wanting you even after teasing them
in your polyester tank-top. Tell them they’re trash you can’t help but gobble up
like a greedy little roach. Oversing your soul out for the world when you can’t sleep—
flood our feeds with your need for validation—convince us you are vision in PINK!
I’ll be honest, I feed off your desperation; a constant reminder of what I don’t want to be.
In the 8th Circle, Bolgia Two
I.
You have been here so long,
you think you are a demoness
calling herself “girl.” You have swallowed,
and leisurely bathed in so much of your own
miasmic (you say it’s orgasmic) excrement,
that you hand it out like hostess gifts,
or party favors to those you think want it.
Eventually, you will drown and be buried—
even if you imagine hell as a glittery casino,
or a pulsing arcade where you wheedle
and serve prosaic (you say super cravable)
meals to important beasts. They pretend to be your
friends while you fill their plates up with flattery—
they love that you are a constant reminder
they have more status in the Inferno than you.
II.
There is always someone wanting to save you
from perdition. They want to teach you the awareness
you lack, clean you up so you can fool those you come
in contact with—see, you don’t need to be covered in shit,
you can find your “authentic” self under all the layers.
They see an empty human soul and want to fill her up
with projections and predictions of girls they loved before.
They like to think they are enlightened enough to guide
you through ascension, but they pity you too much,
and even they don’t know how to fly—haven’t been high
enough to reach the outskirts of limbo.
They will abandon you too, let you be your own nightmare—
a feast for the Queen of Heaven and Hell.
Marisa Silva-Dunbar is a Pushcart nominated poet. Her work has been featured in: Royal Rose Magazine, Pussy Magic, Bone & Ink, Amaryllis, Midnight-Lane Boutique, and Constellate Literary Journal. She graduated from the University of East Anglia with her MA in poetry. Marisa is the founder and EIC of Neon Mariposa Magazine. She has work forthcoming in Dear Reader, The Charles River Journal, Dark Marrow, and Apathy Press. You can follow her on Twitter @thesweetmaris.