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I will not be your blood blister
I will not be so abused I learn to like it and take it with a mouthful of cloth
I will not be your punching bag. Held by The Devil for you to take your life’s frustrations out upon.
I am injured and self-loathing but there is still fight left. The fight tells me not to submit and become, that smear of inconsequence you so desperately want.
Light is fading and we walk along the rivers edge. You tell me to jump in, hand me the locks and chains, swallow the key and cross your arms.
The river is swollen like an angry mother calling her children home. Trees weep into its corners like penitents and the sky drizzles its damp message through closed mouthed cloud cover.
I have lived 32 years and each one seems too long. The locks that separate parts…
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