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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.
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.
