The Art of Soap-Making

 A disappointment from conception,

Nurtured in filth and fear,

Papa soiled mama's womb,

And I am the stain she can't clean.

Fled to greener lawns,

With mama's curse on my tongue,

Suppressed cries caught in my throat.

The sun holds me in his eye,

But his promise offers no solace,

Seeking comfort in other outcasts,

Romani psychics and carnival mystics.

Formed from spilled fat,

Countless white coffins swallowed by the earth,

Drops of oil from flowers picked too soon,

I see her curse in my dreams,

Stir the mixture over the flame,

Mother didn't teach me to make soap,

But she surely showed me the way.

Poisoned wine and a parched ax,

Don't turn your nose to the cakes when your own fortune's soaked in blood,

Take a bite, 

I'm tired of your frivolous laughter,

Have you ever slept in dirt?

My portrait's gone up in flames,

At least my sun and heart are safe from the monster I was born to be,

How can love be enough when I'm not sure it's real?

How can love be enough in this life I don't feel?