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Tim Knight
Poems
Feb 2013
WHEN SELF HARM BECOMES THAT TRAIN BACK HOME
You had tracks on your arms
that led to stations
that didn't exist.
Just a list of lines
falling off and around
your wrists.
Open all hour wounds
on forearm forecourt,
that your parents wonβt find out about.
Happy faces never hide
humble beginnings
in a house like that.
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Written by
Tim Knight
Cambridge
(Cambridge)
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