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Realization
Your hands are shaking
like a junkie's:
You're drunk on sickness
and your voice is sour.
You thought you were ugly before?
You are a rotten limb
gangrenous
putrescent.
Twisted, bent, and limp.
And now comes the thundering bombast
of empty pride
and the cling-clang-whistle
of an old parade float.
Your mouth is lined with a white-picket smile;
and across the green grass
and inside the neat yellow house
and down the old stairs
there's a meth lab.
You thought you were ugly?
Now look at yourself.
You are a mosquito, engorged
with malaria.
Your eyes are glazed
like stars
and your smile has splintered.
“Darling, my darling baby girl,
my darling, my baby”
-murmuring into your pillow,
the words like velvet on your ears-
“My darling baby girl,” you tell yourself
-because nobody else will-
“It's all gonna be alright.”
I want to show you yourself
and watch you wither.
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