I’m not a poet.
With daggers and swords,
I cut open the wounds
Beneath my own bandages.
With small knives,
I smear the holes
In my thighs with
Blood and sweat.
Where there used
To be tiny marks,
Lie scars bigger than
Mere lightening bolts.
I dig claws inside
The chambers of my heart
And I flesh out pain
More hurtful than heartbreak.
No, I’m not a poet,
Because I’m my own killer.
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