July 8, 2011
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On the couch
with my arms wrapped
around my middle
I bunch up
and run my nails
along my pale skin
imagining it peeling
and tearing away
to reveal something
and healthy
Without risks and imperfections
that make my heart staccato
should I move too fast
that make my bones crack
should I stand too tall
that don’t force my muscles to contract
should I try to be strong
So I lay there
bunched up in a ball
pulling at my clothes
wishing it was my skin
so the next day
I might stand.

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