she likes the bones in my face

is it safe now – my wormish excerpts form a towering ledger and urge me, impressively (in them are my hallowed thoughts,

unable to make corpses out of them, I petted them instead, calling their nature blessed and their souls just – see, they are happy)

words blending with red blood cells, I hunger for them – must cut off my very supply of oxygen to find their brutish squall choked,

and how could I? I am to love myself.

perhaps I have always been torn in two, but I seek her friendship like the sanctification of a godly ruler, and she lovingly cups my childish notions

in her ghostly hands; wise, when she talks, I pretend to be silent

walk with me now, the ostracized. you’re not apart from me.


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