Becoming her (Anima.)

I stand unformed,
Epicene but still exposed to
Carnal carving;
My idle hands are dead girl's play things. 

(A fat slump of dough, tasteless,
Dated,
Far too prodded and way
Too stretched.) 

I try to mould that waste, that squalor.
Cookie-cutter marks litter my membrane.
What happy snarls;
A heart! A star! 
(There are vast gaps; little abortions of
My infant soul. They are hers.) 

With one foot on yin,
One foot on yang, the crevice below
Wishes it could devour me, that foul
Voraphiliac. – (How I love to tease thee.)

And then it happens.
Some sassy mess, greased up
For the stage.
A fine,
Brown peahen soup. 

But why do they follow her?
(The azure trails ignites me
A la vert.)
I want all one hundred eyes!
Every feathered sapphire;
I want lady temperance dead.
(And I don’t
Even like Bleu.) 

Alas,
The serpentine urge then writhes.
Birthed in my
Clogged arteries, it wades through the past
Like a sodden trench.
My heart sighs
At the rote.
Its ethereal hand plucks my cheeks;
Rouge.

Ink leaks from my eyes, lining it with contrast.
Lashes congeal in the dusky froth.
Peachy liquid is forced through my pores, caking
My face to splendour.
I look stale,
Like bad art.

My hair, too –
Elongating, the ropey plumage
Falls like bondage on my back. 
(My hips engorge like a snake’s gullet.)

This is my ferocity,
The wrath of Anima.