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the wounded

23 January 2010

what are these wounds
so deep, sliced right through
flesh and bone and muscle sinew
that crack and bleed when i think of you
your eyes inside your evil head
the looks you gave me in your bed
these silent moments, these reveries
come and go with me
and like you, breeze in and out
leaving only self loathing and self doubt
to mark their passing here;
should i lay myself on a bier
and light the flames for all to see–
or will you just call me names and be
everything i think you are,
but nothing that you ought to be
and so again i crawl away
begging for release;  a new day,
one that you have not marred
by these unhealed wounds.

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