Lotion

My heartbeat triangulates through pillow;

sounds wet, misleading–

pillow smells clean

against my tier;

of no motion,

false emotion.

 

Minerva gathers her wings from your

bedside table;

tongues your lotion for the feeling–

not the texture

upon portrayed skin,

while her poetry selfishly soothes her soul.

 

Her exoskeleton senses no genius from you;

fingertips caress the hilltop of once confident breast–

now concave

and limited

from the erosion of rusted, selfless button.

 

Wrinkle her brain;

treat her anti-social with

anti-anxiety sundaes–

moisturize the familiar

with lotion;

as anti-fat collapses on herself.

 

Mortality tastes like ambrosia

aged to winter’s torment;

but beautiful–

 

“It’s all in the stems–

comfort in plain,”

Minerva whispers,

seedless and crying,

as her heartbeat falls into context–

wet and misleading…