GRIEF Poem: Baby Piggie, by Valeria Stepanova

Theres,
like,
a hole.
Throw up my hands
Screaming at a sky for my failure
With a fingernail scratched of polish
Of a fake nail torn from bed
Beautiful,
And not mine.

My throat pink and fleshy and skinned and

Craning back to stare gagged at vomit
Shiny innards reflecting opaquely.

They say drinking water helps,
But curled over myself
I continue to wretch.
Unhelping and
Suffering for myself.

Seeing bugged like buggyBuggy,
Buggy from that cartoon.
Desperately I try to close my lived eyes
No use when vomit will shine
through skin of eyelids
Straight into my mind.
Bulged pupil dilated twice.

Whore.
It’s called – being forever bare
(and lazy too).
I know
The way the sun hit my back,
Never spoke nor whispered
It hit my surroundings but
Never reached our dirty lives
Or your dark head down my chin and sight.

Sniff. I hope you sniff with both our eyes wide
The proximity intimate.
Get to know my cheeks and hair clips,
My face soft and rosy,
I know it’s what you like.

Touch my legs again,
Then – when you will
Let us both acknowledge
how I have slippers on,
Hiding the tiny toes
Peaking and wiggling.

Baby pinky
Went to the market
Baby piggy
Peach and nude
Baby is right.

We both stare into the pit of my brown iris.
Im begging God to show me
Proof that monsters too can cry
Over responsibility
Disregarded selfishly.

I hope your nose squirms shamefully,
Trying to sneeze.
Two fingers up your nose
Up your body.

Nothing changes
I’ll come back tomorrow
I’ll open up again
And I’ll continue to stare.
Then I’ll come back tomorrow
And tomorrow
And I’ll continue to stare
I’ll come back tomorrow
And