Acerbo just got here.
Asks if you know it’s cold.
You don’t know what ‘it’ is.
Silence the liver!
Bring forth the mold.
Stomach grows a presence,
disturbing the architecture.
But the ketchup-thick blood
in the bathtub
ain’t Acerbo.
This gash is shaped the same.
Irreversible scarring.
Hiding head lice,
and drowning fleas.
This contorted lump
that squawks at you
and pisses on you
is literal.
But the knife wielder
isn’t Acerbo.
A systematic rape left me with questions.
Acerbo says you weren’t molested.
Sent to me via fucking text message.
Like a lover dose,
the voicemails are never,
ever over.
Similar to splitting you down at birth,
this gash is shaped the same.
Filled with mixed gas,
missed cycles
My locked smile
floats in bile.
Leave your sweetie pie a voicemail of it all.