Mister Media
Mister "media"
Mister "exploit my body"
Mister "low carb, low weight, low self-esteem" media
Mister "rape my belly"
Mister "thigh and hip genocider"
Mister "tits and ass, and 12 year old leg dispenser"
Mr. Media
Sir. ahem,
most prestigious profiter of my self worth
the one you sold to me,
in my pink crib at birth!
Sir.
How is it you sleep at night?
while I eat the stars and fast on the moon?
Doing sit ups for you
on my
Cold Tile
Floor.
or standing in the bathroom
with my shirt up
wanting my womb and child-bearing hips
dead dead
and dead!
You sir,
live between the glossy pages of my
2 dollar and nineteen cent propaganda
a million magazines singing
anorexia's national anthem
rows and rows lining my supermarket.
You live in a castle made of cable
computer wirings and satellite dishes
television sets and
you're a cross between Kate Moss and Keneth Lay.
Mr. "Sell! Sell! Sell!"
tragedy, vulnerability, sullen stares
teaching baby girls bruises and sickness is pretty
while you look anything but sullen
Fucking beaming as you make love to your dollar while I...
while I make love to that ad you sold me
while I make hate with myself
while I make myself sick over some toilet,
or empty because it feels good
while I make love to that addiction.
You see,
we're all just getting off, I guess.
It's just that my climax could kill.
This poem was written by my friend Sarah Mason. It was first shown to me while in treatment, because she had also attended CFD. I just found it in some of my old papers and it's still just as powerful, and a really good reminder for me as to why I don't want to fall back into the places I was stuck before, with a good contribution from the media.
Mister "exploit my body"
Mister "low carb, low weight, low self-esteem" media
Mister "rape my belly"
Mister "thigh and hip genocider"
Mister "tits and ass, and 12 year old leg dispenser"
Mr. Media
Sir. ahem,
most prestigious profiter of my self worth
the one you sold to me,
in my pink crib at birth!
Sir.
How is it you sleep at night?
while I eat the stars and fast on the moon?
Doing sit ups for you
on my
Cold Tile
Floor.
or standing in the bathroom
with my shirt up
wanting my womb and child-bearing hips
dead dead
and dead!
You sir,
live between the glossy pages of my
2 dollar and nineteen cent propaganda
a million magazines singing
anorexia's national anthem
rows and rows lining my supermarket.
You live in a castle made of cable
computer wirings and satellite dishes
television sets and
you're a cross between Kate Moss and Keneth Lay.
Mr. "Sell! Sell! Sell!"
tragedy, vulnerability, sullen stares
teaching baby girls bruises and sickness is pretty
while you look anything but sullen
Fucking beaming as you make love to your dollar while I...
while I make love to that ad you sold me
while I make hate with myself
while I make myself sick over some toilet,
or empty because it feels good
while I make love to that addiction.
You see,
we're all just getting off, I guess.
It's just that my climax could kill.
This poem was written by my friend Sarah Mason. It was first shown to me while in treatment, because she had also attended CFD. I just found it in some of my old papers and it's still just as powerful, and a really good reminder for me as to why I don't want to fall back into the places I was stuck before, with a good contribution from the media.