This is me being a bulimic poet.

Your limbic’s in limbo,
hypocritical bimbo.
On this next mood swing,
I’ll underdog to tomorrow.

I’ll take you to the interstate
and string you on that crucifix.
You’ll muster guts to be a martyr
and fly the flag of half-mast cynics.

You don’t believe in spirits,
but the seance in your chest sure stirred
some ghostly regrets.

Are you a witch
or a scientist?
You treat yourself as a god too much
to ever be an Atheist.

Lye can be explosive.
Why would you bathe yourself in one?

chop chop choppy chop

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