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The sting of childhood’s despair
still stings with each opening blood vessel.
Blending numbers dance on the scale
as my eyes hide behind insecurity.
The traffic screams through the house
we used to call a home.
Figures weep down the stairs and into the
tiled bathroom floor where my knees
have fallen to in desperation.
A metal mouth has found me abused,
bleeding open and let out to dry on the clothesline.
The body hangs like ragged old clothing
dampened by expectations and perfection that
crams fingers down my throat.
Delicate and fragile
my skin has been a blank canvas
I have distinctively destroyed with this blade.