apple polishing

it’s your thing —
deliver your messages
in beeswax packaging
still with traces of honey
glossed with spit
and breathing pauses
to add some glaze in my cavities
to build up plaque in my arteries.

we are so much
better off
in avoidance
but the stench of its faux beauty,
the sight of its synthetic splendor
lures so
inviting
me to sample and toothmark
the image you’ve conspired
with my desiring imagination to create.

i got used
to eating your airs.
thus, i ineluctably lost my teeth when
i’ve bitten the poisoned worm
residing in your ill logic
which has successfully evaded me
until
the day of
its,
your,
my,
our doom.

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