Mirror, Mirror

Folder: 
Mombi's Heads

I’ve got a grip

on the situation.

 

Oh boy.

 

You - sit.

On this

Shunned.

Spun with arrogance.

He’s all mine.

He’s in the bag.

But someone must've

cut the bottom.

Maybe it can be your puppet

so you don’t get lonely from it.

Poor kid - por que?

It was never gonna be that way.

Fruitless claim to stake

Steak? Less. Gravy train?

Narrow marrow? Chicken bone?

At most, you get the scraps

You can’t call dibs on a ghost

I’ll comb you from my hair

I’ll peel you like dried glue

I tried to be honest

I wasn’t born to be a blessing

But it still appears

Humility will be your lesson.

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