I WONT FORGIVE YOU.
YOUR TEETH HAVE ALREADY LEFT THEIR SCAR ON MY SKIN.
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I don't speak little, but I have only said things that mattered
A handful of times.
The rest is filler talk,
A concoction of what I think would fit best.
Those few times I've spit out the words,
Bloodied and grody, they've scratched my throat, carrying skin and cobwebs,
Pieces of bone, tracing a path almost untouched,
Like a tractor destroying an old, old forest,
Dragging tree and trunk.
And the listener took the bone-barb,
Held it to my neck, asked,
"What is this? Why?
Why is this?
Why are you?"
And the watcher stared at the drool,
Like one stares at a rabid dog,
And ran away, and
Asked me to clean it.
But they were good, for the worse came from the ones
Who saw, closed their eyes,
Just a minute too late,
And walked away, looked away,
Away, away,
So I licked it off the floor,
Swallowed it back again,
Put it away, away.
I wait with childlike, doglike hope
That someone, someday will rip it out of my chest
Where it has accumulated, taken root,
And look at it, dip their hands into it,
Look into my burning eyes and dirty face and say,
"I see you,
And I love you despite."
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Watch them weep.
Watch them weep at what they’ve created. They are the ones who sharpened your teeth. Muzzled your mouth. Razored your claws. They cower at their own creation.
You curl in the corner surrounded by them.
You bare your teeth. You are the only one who should be weeping.
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