If you were to place you fingers right between my vertebrae,

You’d behold what keeps breaking my back,

In fact,

It’s the evil cousin of dismay.


It sleeps in witched chambers of questionable thoughts,

The ones that don’t belong,

Strong, be gone, a song—

It sings off hollow walls that rot.


The brain be my beaten chamber of me,

Pink and free,

But bound,

Trapped, the sound—

Of what it screams,

Often worse than it seems.


I have given enough power to the passing moments,

I have given enough self to selflessness and atonement,

A thirst,

A thirst,

Not quenched,

A thirst,

The worst, is close,

The first of notes,

Of screams to a bursting throat,

That bodes a choke…

And finally breaks the cloak,

That she has up,

She the demon, she the beast,

That rips the joy from my face and base from my feet,

But no longer.


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