"The Prodigal Daughter"

My chocolate cake was fizzing over the top,
and I could feel her penetrating, pixelated eyes
dissecting me
from the newspaper clipping on the wall.

She's the queen of the sewers
who rose above the filth,
with yellow locks tinted green
and mineral deposits
on her dress.

They showered her in streamers,
and she closed her eyes:
dreaming she'd be pure again,
dreaming she'd be five again—
just like I am now...
only with sky on her dress
and sun in her hair.

Chuck Palahniuk knows
the lower you fall
the higher you fly,

and now I can see over my Lego wall
that rock bottom
is padded with confetti.

I never sold my soul for a savior
bringing melatonin
because I always said
I'd rather lie still,
my imagination blank for crayon scribbles.
As Alpha Pluses succumbed to the soma,
Thoreau was unfit to look me in the face.

I suffered un-anesthetized;
I was giddy un-inebriated—
but when I tried to point my finger,
my hands were oven-mitted and useless.
I should've slashed those veins
the moment I felt the slightest bit numb.
I'd be better heavily medicated;
I've found no answers wide awake and alert.

The Prodigal Daughter shut her eyes
before the sedation needle broke her skin.
She dove into the waste
knowing the comfort of her prize
would glisten from the surface as she sank.