Rusting Gut-Buster

Recycled your feelings.
In your head machinery churns,
Heart crunches;
You choke out a confession,
Like the latest commodity
On a factory line.

Hold a price gun to your head.
Reduced, damaged, discontinued stock.
Screeches the red tape
Over your mouth and your nose,
Restricting your breathing.

It snakes past your collarbones.
Tickles ribs, entices gooseflesh.
Loops graceful betwixt your swollen wrists
Squeezes thighs, throttles ankles
Holds you tight.

Marked and bound by failing words
Lungs and tongues and vocal chords
Ugly, premature disclosure --
Not even the warehouse wants you now.

It's over.

The End

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