Art doesn’t become a masterpiece because of magic; only after our elbows are raw, our brains mined to the core and our hearts swollen.
The shredding has begun again,
I breathe: 1…2…3…pause, but
flow gates have opened to
unabated scorn, contempt,
secrets of a monthly guile
left me with despicable remarks,
if only I can contain it within.
This time, I say, will be normal,
as I writhe in unwarranted tears
and futilely berate chemicals
to not let the tender, pure swan
transgress into the impaired harpy.