Observations about Humanity

I once knew a girl with skin
as delicate as a slug. Her radiance
shone translucently in the moonlight
on nights when she crawled gingerly
over the leaves in our backyards.
Growing up, I watched my mother
rub salt and lemon into her wounds
so that it could eat at her problems.
There were times when citric acid
sank in so deep I could hear the muse
within her soul wither away.
I can still hear the chemical crackling
as my mother taught me that pain
is nature's way of building character.
Even today, I can see the acidic kisses
those corrosive stains left, curiously
tonguing grass blades and staining
the ground with her entrails.

Oh, baby, I don't blame you,
but there are nights where her pupils
shine like a snake's in my subconscious.
Sometimes, I can feel the fangs digging
into my spine; jaws twisting around
like a slivery tap at the base of my torso.
My mother told me that there is a vengeance
that comes with repression the same day
she taught me that emotional mutations
are God's way of telling you He is terrified
of your progress. Be still, demons,
for I can feel your tendrils
asphyxiating my goodwill.