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Caught

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I don't want to go home
where the people are bruised inside
with tortuous minds weaved by spiders
that trap and devour every stray word–

I don't want to go home
where the walls don't respond
to their preachings of corpse shattered
blood spattered wisdom–

I don't want to go home
where love tastes like blood
gently poured down my throat so
I’ll know nothing sweeter–

for I,
the writhing misfit,
am the favored one
wrapped carefully in threads of need.






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