Paper

Dull ache, twist me as a knife
Upon my own scarred skin.
Skin, translucent storm with
Cold veins, covering the tempestuous insides, so I am
A tornado upon a hurricane
Obliterating.
Malfunctioning, ink you are on me
As though I were the paper
The paper of our ancestors,
Fibers and rough lines.
Youth is too warm
Suffocating in my own thoughts,
Which cut me.
Some things are both warm and cold at once,
Broken faucet that I am,
I leak of two sides.
I am not quite one with my
Mind and yet I am too close.
I am my own tourniquet.





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