How do you pull a memory
out of the confines of your dungeons?
They are warped open,
with pests looming around.
I switch to the joyful dungeons,
the ones that slapped on purple and pink,
dressed like a birthday cake,
but cutting a slice,
showed you reels of funny banter.
Cutting words on how you are as a form,
too thick, too lean,
too brown, too brown, too brown,
even for the brown.
I bought the mask for a brave face,
the lessons were cut-throat,
pin-pointing deficiencies,
and slashing down the power,
tucked away neatly in humour,
but in the end,
they were barbaric,
So were I at that point.
The anger subsided,
with ashes not so pretty,
and I cuddled in with a blanket,
mistaking it for fresh, fluffy snow.
deliriouswithacherryontop 