Wednesday, 17 October 2012

sick—we the sickened

no
fever sores
or razor-cut piss

can deflect my shame
or torture.

I was born to
blossom like a blister flower.

You find
amusement elsewhere.

So Be It.

My cold, crowded birthday approaches
and my sole comforts

are visits to Papa
on the outskirts.

Love never ends even if it claims to pretend.

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