The Pure Way Gone Way Pure

I don’t have any purity.
There is a chainsaw inside that one porcupine.
Because I am perfectly flawed.
That dollhouse is burning wildly.
They took my entire body.
Seven of the pineapples went silly.
For a box they made a measure of.
One was a word that swallowed mice.
I had a night, once.
We would find the bones as books.
There was a god there.
Burning wings or eyes like shining.
One of my fingers went with it.
Off into the clean clean space.
Because I am perfectly flawed.
My purity discarded me.
A god.