I know that there is a table
in a Catholic high school in my local town
with an etch of the letter "G"
next to boredom-inspired vandal,
jagged lines, circles,
perhaps a few ******* shapes
as silly high school boys
are prone to draw.

An Advanced Maths textbook sits on a shelf
with a little doodle
of a peace sign next to an emo smiley
from a time where I was caught
between two phases,
tight black jeans and a flowing turquoise shirt.

Tobacco stains smeared
over the wood of a sealed off door
just outside my bedroom,
evidence of the first time
I tried a cigarette, seven years old,
and then panicked and tried to
flush it down the toilet,
only to have to fish it out and stuff it
in a little crevice, to be hidden and
remain there for seven years.

We leave all these little marks
and stains
in places we've been.
Spilled food, spilled ink, spilled drink,
tobacco stains and pools of blood.
"The marks humans leave are
too often scars."

I have scars.
Left forearm. Right calf. Right wrist bone. Both kneecaps.

A scar across my ribs and chest I was
so desperate to be rid of,
I bathed myself in oils and it was
the first scab I
never picked at; but a couple of weeks ago
I dreamt it was there again, fresh.
It tore open in front of everyone, bled out,
and I woke up gasping, drowning in my fear,
agonised, clutching at a wound that'd long since faded
convinced I could feel it splitting me apart again.

I have evidence all over my body
and more buried deep within the recesses of my mind,
scars so jagged they put knives to shame,
shining, pale, like diamonds in moonlight
not half as precious
but still invaluable.
Evidence of the marks humans leave behind.

I'm not innocent.
I don't pretend like I am.
I know there is a man out there
who gained another scar to add to his collection
when he was fourteen years old.
I know my hands carved it into his skin.
I know I used to use my fists
when others used their words to hurt me.

When I die, I know that I will leave
pieces of myself
everywhere
I've ever been. Whether people know it
or not, whether they
remember me
or not. There are ink stains
and coffee spills. My blood
is still on the floor of his house.
The high school cafeteria
has a circle of red
from a nosebleed I didn't realise I was having.
There are parks wearing my graffiti
and children donning my old clothes, and people overseas
still alive because of me

(or that's what they'll tell me, but
all I did was talk.
Give yourself the credit you guys deserve,
you're the ones who chose to listen.
You're the ones who had the strength to
pick your head up and carry on)

There are exes who still think of me
and friends who will one day
come across some article of clothing
or a piece of technology
I left behind after a sleepover.
Teachers who will remember
that smart, sarcastic student
who had panic attacks in their classrooms
and drank coffee in the mentoring hub with Mrs. Hume
whilst buttering bagels and functioning on no sleep.

Maybe our place in the universe is
insignificant. Or maybe it's the
most significant thing
of all.
Maybe the Buddhists are right.
Maybe we are the universe, together
as one. I sure think it makes sense.

Streams of consciousness
and spirits that need healing.
We work the sun
without even realising we're doing it.
We destroy it, too,
which is perhaps why we
are so self destructive in turn.

Maybe we're
smaller than specs of dust
but that's okay.
You don't have anything
without the particles required
to make things up.
Everything is a collection of atoms:
the tiniest things of all
yet they're the centre of everything,
the beginning of everything.

So when the end comes and
we burst back into the sky,
stardust and souls and
blinking little lights,
we'll have left our marks on the earth
regardless of who remembers
and we'll still be there, twinkling,
a collection of atoms that came from a supernova
essential to the makeup of galaxies
and life itself.
What could be more beautiful than that?

Snake in the grass
slides stealthily
slippery through
the dry

c  u      d
  r  s  e
       h

leaves

slithering its way
secretly 'round
through the red forest
with red leaves
and red trees
and red tape

He slithers quietly
Creeps and crawls
on his belly
so

l


o




w


through Ferguson
he slides
Scraping the scab
of a fresh, infected wound
Stinging it
with his tail
his tongue

Snake in the grass
Slides smoothly
into Texas

Hex us Vex us
Nexus Correct us

to the cusp of reason
the the edge of insanity
Siphoning tight
in the barrel of their guns
salivating at the fresh prey
crawling in the distance

He's not so different
from you and I

He's just like us
////////////////////////////////////
/////////////////////////////////
/////////////a/////////////////////
///////////sn///////////////////////////
/////////ake//////////////////////
/////////in/////////////////////////////
//////////the///////////////////////
////////////gr/////////////////////////
/////////////as///////////////////
//////////////s//////////////////////////
//////////////////////////////////

I'm Not lost but I'm not found either. Over time the wound tends to heal, but we are left with scars that remain forever. Pull off the scab and you are left with a significant scar, same with people. Get rid of someone who tends to cause you pain. As you've already let them go they leave behind their presence whether it be memories or significant values, the spirit still remains.

Her wounds never heal.
      His scathing tongue picks at the scab
until fresh hurt oozes forth.

                     It is only then
                                      that he wants to bandage her.

the humble priest who, clothed in black and drab
old moth-holed garb and well-worn holy shoes,
saw yellow-orange men with breath infused
survive while hammered under concrete slabs,

adorned with seizure's scrapes and new dried scab,
a monk's black cap and simple wooden cross,
from Shaolin's breath could not be pushed or tossed,
or even budged when by his arm was grabbed,

then one whose throat withstood the point of spear,
did ask the priest what powers blocked his chi,
the humble priest explained and this he said,

"from chi's destructive force i had no fear,
for i did what you could not hear or see,
recite the name of One raised from the dead"

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

They never tell you how much patience it takes
to get through the past wrongs and all of the mistakes
I just wanted a simple situation with nary bit of heinous
but they never tell you how it can be so dangerous
holding up the skies, crawling between the cracks,
if they ever try to lie, we'll fall on our backs ready for the attack,
but they never said being in a relationship can be so hard
because one day everything feels so real, and another it's a facade,
I've been kneeling in front of sculptures praying to a god
but all I ever get in return is a resounding nod, an empty gesture
And from all the times i look at it , I hate to be a pester
I'm too strong to walk away but I'm too weak to say goodbye
so please someone tell me what to do because nothing I do is ever right.

You keep doing this to me, on the daily,
I'd walk away if I knew you'd chase me
Because I know I can't ever let you go
Because once you go, you're gone
and there's not a single way to move on
so what am I holding onto
when you don't even know that i want you.
I need you,
scars bleed too
and my heart is hurting more than any scab or wounds
and I'm trying not to point fingers and put the blame on you
but I need to stop the bleeding
so please remind me that you still love me
so please remind me that I may be ugly
But no matter what you'll still always love me
because i seem to have forgotten
maybe my brain is just rotten...

But I love you
and I hope you love me too

Loops feel cursed to me,
I've been living in them for God knows how many weeks,
I'd do anything to break the pattern,
anything to make them scatter,
I've been picking the scab on my chin for an hour,
You won't read my texts anymore,

Everything I eat,
no matter how sweet,
tastes sour,
Probably a side effect again,
Isn't it always in the end?
Just a side effect again.

I've been spelling words inside my head,
It makes me feel crazy but the patterns will save me,
Just make this all stop please,
I'm tired of this repetitive clicking,
It's really really itching,
I can't breathe

It's just the side effects again
They always say it is in the end.

Picking at every scab on the scalp,
under each fingernail a thin gluey layer of blood.

pick, pick.

Just like in the old days: 16 years old. 17. 18. 19 years old. 20, 21, 22, 23 and 24 and 25 and then it stopped. A few months pass and I haven't even run my fingers through my hair, maybe it was just the weather drying my scalp, or a harsh shampoo.

So much of my life is simply out of my awareness. Not in any deep philosophical sense, but rather an inane one. Can't seem to pay attention to reality, nonetheless grasp it. I thought I was a dreamer, at one point in my life. Now I see it as daydreaming, the sort of daydreaming symptomatic of melancholia. Relationships become hazy, I'm either abusing someone, or myself it seems. I feel lost in the hubbub, maybe similar to running through an exciting room; ceiling speckled with hanging multi-colored streamers that touch the floor. The intentions seem clear enough, get to the exit. I never do, though. It's more of a mindless plodder, or sometimes a frantic pacing back and forth. It's a bit overwhelming, this is a big room and it's easy to feel very small in it. The lights are bright and distracting, I cant help but feel vulnerable. Somehow I have to protect myself and blot all this out.
and just like that I become ignorant.

Friendships and well-being between acquaintances becomes jaded, confusing, misguided always missing the target.  It's all so narcissistic and self-centered: this whole scenario that could easily dote itself as a complex that esteems oneself as something that which it is not, but under all of that simply lies the fear. Fear paints the walls of this room black and the streamers are blood-red, the lights aren't so bright anymore, they're dim, and not as bright as a candle burning at wick's end. If you're lucky Someone comes along and sets up a street light in the center, and you see the way out.

But what's on the other side of that door? Is it a greater hell than this one? Are there bigger flames and more insults? Or is it peace and calm, is it Okay-ness? Surely there are more people out there, which is a horrid thing to imagine. There's surely so much out there that could harm me, and my pride. If they hurt my pride they'll all see that scared little boy, the weak one, the feeble one with the weak mind that insidiously disguises itself with pride and pretense.  The one that wasn't popular, the one that jokes were made against. The lazy, the stupid, foolish one. The one that tries to hide his deformed image with vanity and "pride."

Go ahead friend, take your light, close the door on your way out. I'll sit here with my legs crossed, it may be dark and scary in here, but at least I've kicked everyone else out.. now it's just me.

and I do believe that candle has just burned out completely.
I can't even see my hand in front of my face.

*pick, pick.

I hate you.
I hate you for being okay
With making me feel this way.
I would rather take a beating
Than deal with this this way
Because that pain would be physical
The bruises would sting as a reminder that you had done this.
The cuts and gashes would scab and pull and cause me discomfort, but I could see them. I could find them and heal them in a weeks time.
But what I feel is deep inside an invisible knife is lodged in my heart and everytime I become numb to its pain it twists relentlessly, reminding me that no matter how much I tell myself it is going to be alright, your won’t be by my side.
I can’t pull it out. This knife in my life. I can’t retrieve it from the depths of this black abyss I’ve been sailing in. This will not heal in a weeks time. I can not watch as this wound gets better. I have to wait it out and hope that I am strong enough to pull myself through. With the knife still intact, as a reminder of you.

Is it odd that I hate tree stumps?

I mean, really, is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
I walk past them on the roadside
And something seems to break free.

I feel tense and taut;

A green branch pulled tight
On the saw edge of a gardener’s knife,
Peeling back one fibre at a time.
I can’t stop it to save my life.

It makes my skin crawl

To see the corpse left jutting up
Like the last tooth of a diseased crone,
Like a tag on the skin of the earth,
A drying scab to make the mother moan.

Couldn’t they just dig it up,

Or is that too much to ask?
Not enough to slay the ancient tree,
But to leave it lying on the ground;
Like leaving the foot of an amputee.

It makes me so mad

That I wonder I don’t complain,
But then I know a letter will be ignored,
As the death of such a mighty sentinel
Is a thing our conscience can afford.

It’s not like it was alive…

But the sarcasm doesn’t matter,
And the funny looks I get while I weep
Sink like the teeth of a saw,
Cutting through the body at my feet.

Am I the only one who hates tree stumps?

one day maybe, you’ll let me write my poems upon your skin,
let the words, like vines, trickle and tingle through your veins, itch and scab upon your pores.
so, whenever you’re sad, whenever you’re lonely,
you can see the ink,
and know i will be there, even when it fades.

She doesn't recognize it at first
The image on the DVD box with a DVD about boxing inside,
Reflecting the dim daylight whitely from its dim corner.
At first glimpse, she cringes - emblazoned on the front is a wound
More scab than face,
Of course meant to titillate brutal boys
Who want to see the blood fresh.
Then she thinks of good taste - no one just buys blood -
That curve there, blocked by sunlight, must be the seam of a punching bag
A brown one,
A symbol of the adrenaline-and-sweat Cinderella story inside.
Yes. That's it.
She shifts just a little to the left, away from the window, to discover
The glass slipper she's imagined
Is a black man's ear.

‘You’ll make it worse’

she said.  But now her eyes
were fixed to Matt Damon’s ****,
hands full of Malteser mess.

My chubby digits do my walking
a finger-tip rub round the rim
takes the itch away.

I must have got bitten round her mate
Skanky Tina’s.  More hoover – less cat.
X     STA    CY

Now I’ve caught the edge.
pull back the scab and
in the popcorn bag.

Blood.  Oh my God, blood.
It starts to well, then trickle
down my leg toward the sofa.

If   I   can     balance      right
kitchen towel   just    too     far
wait, the pizza plate.  Perfect.

Tissue soaked in tomato grease
fits the bill just right.
‘What the Hell are you up to?’

none of the words come out right anymore. i’m mentally stuttering, and my engine is dying. my words aren’t flowing anymore, they’re clotting like blood on my skin. and sure, every so often i’ll pick at the scab and it might come back for a while, but it’ll dry and heal and never show again. because my work is often like a wound. my words are like blood; they only really come when i’m stumbling with a grazed knee, sobbing like a child. they only flow when i’m hurt. i start to beg for a bandage, wishing for the blood to stop. and when the blood stops, the pain stops, and then the words.

Sense of self
lost in a sea of
loveless misery.

Forget me here,
digging in muck and
festering disease.

Armor plated
calluses so thick
no compassion will pierce
the scab.

The skin is dry
   The pull
      The tug
         The tear
The skin is dead
   It sticks
      It bleeds
         It shrivels

The white teeth stained
With the blood and the pain
As the pink lips scab,
The skin pulled back
   Blood drips
      Tongue licks
         **Teeth rip

October 3, 2013 at 1:22am

So maybe I still miss you,
but apathy is the way I want to feel towards you;
I want the ache in my chest to diminish,
to be completely extinguished in a quick fleeting moment.
But it’s more like erosion,
only washing away the most miniscule amount at a time.
Decreasing the pain in the tiniest of amounts,
taking decades and centuries of
wind,
light,
and rain
to morph it into what I desire it to be,
without any distinguished timeline.
Just natural causes that move uncontrollably along,
constantly irritating,
festering,
and ripping
the scab of the wound in awkward moments of solitude.
**I’m a slave to the tormenting low burning throb.

Divorce, like a scab,
Might heal the wound, but the scar
Is always present.

There once was an
awkwardly boyish man who
liked to pick his nose,
especially in public.

One day the man, upon encountering
a monolith of residue, picked too hard
and scratched the inside of his nose, which
began to bleed.

For the entirety of his day, he smelled
the gooey metallic substance swell
throughout his nostrils and tighten
into a scab.

Dizzy, the rush
of thoughts incapacitate
synapses firing, neurons
    throttled, a crescendo
    of dendrites branching

Experience roots
inwardly, tearing the humus
           of pregnant dreams, scratching to see
                               the blood beneath the scab.

     The greater the itch, the greater
        the disturbance of sleep,
            bound by a tangle of vines,
            deafened by the cobbling-together
                of thrushspeak, the cry of clouds
                contorting into unthinkable
                     and suggestive shapes        

   Bleary-eyed, the lost wages
   of sleep gambled away
   on a ticking clock.

I'm tired-

Of having to speak when no one else will.
Of having to put in all the effort when no one else will.

What do you see through those eyes glistening with tears?
I see a cadaverous heart, patched up many times, cursed and blackened.

When I go out in the streets
I feel alienated; people wearing their lovers like dashing accessories:
Hands around waists, hands intertwined.

And out of my extraterrestrial self
I misunderstand what the definition of love is.
Every time I try- I fail.
I fail to win the game of love, a deceiving checkmate, a cold-hearted stalemate.

But I'll try again.
Because wounds heal, with their time.
And whilst you think ahead, I look back.
And whilst you lift your chin, I'll sink mine down.

As a fragment of Joan of Arc
I will save my soul from invasion
I will tender that garden in my heart, plant new seeds of kindness and peace.

There will be little scars here and around my chest, but I will live on.

"tell me about the end of the world," the time traveller asked.

"a blessing," the stars decided.

"tell me about the end of mankind," the time traveller asked.

"peaceful," the stars conferred.

"tell me about the end of humanity," the time traveller asked.

"like a scab finally peeled," the stars nodded in agreement.

they had lived too long.

It is four in the morning and I'm alone
It's dark out
The city lays quiet and sullen with sleep
I'm awake
Awake

Still awake
The sun has yet to rise and won't for another two hours
I move with such grace and ease that the grass doesn't have to strain against my weight
I hear a vehicle fast approaching
A shed to my right
Silently duck behind it
Security van passes by
My heart is pounding in my ears
My breath has never sounded so loud
So utterly loud
So ******* loud
Can't stand it
Security must have heard
But I really know they didn't

I fall to my hands and knees and crawl out from my temporary shelter
The morning dew stains my hands and pants
Don't notice
Don't think

There are bundles of old plywood tied with twine that border the asylum drive
Crawl behind them
Streetlights illuminate my way
They deliver a soft, humming sound that enters through every pore on my body
It's loud
So ******* loud
Hands to ears
Doesn't stop
Won't stop
Keeps ******* humming
Ignore it
I learn to ignore it
Don't hear
Don't think

I position myself in front of the plywood bundles
Asylum drive
Fifteen foot mesh link fence
It's 4 am
I know
I'm awake

Fifteen feet of fence
Steel mesh
Steel mesh so tight, I can barely stick my pinky finger through a hole
There are three horizontal metal bars placed at five foot intervals on the opposite side of the fence
No way up
No way down
The gate is locked and closed
No way in
No way out

I know better
There are a few sturdy looking metal hinges on the massive gate
My hands are laced with sweat
Start to shake
My limbs vibrate in rhythm with my heart
It's compulsive
Compulsive
I stand in front of the gate and look up
It reaches to the heavens
Too tall
Can't climb
The steel is cool and wet to the touch
Can't climb
The bottom of my shoes are slippery
Slippery on the metal
Can't climb
My left foot misses and finds air
I reach, straining myself
Expand
My mind is breaking, seeping strength
Sweat burns my eyes
It hurts
It ******* hurts
Twitch
Can't climb
Mind slips
Slips away
Blood
On
Me
Don't feel a thing
Can't

I'm straddling the top bar of the fence
Until now, I've never been afraid of heights
I stare at the ground, fifteen feet below me
My head is spinning
Look up
Spinning
Panic is settling inside of me
Paralyzed with fear
Paralyzed
Can't move
Breathe
Think
Feel
It's so slippery
Don't want to fall
Don't want to die
Scared
Can't go down
Can't

I let go
I slipped and fell
Falling
Fell
Hit
Ground
Face
First
I'm cold and numb
It hurts
It ******* hurts

My left eye is cold
My eyelashes have been ripped out
My eyelid is a ******, fleshy mess
Bleeding profusely
It's sticky
Wet
Gross
My mind is racing
I'm soaked
Soaked in sweat
Dew
Thoughts
Pain
Time
I'm gross
Awake

The facade of the building is straight ahead
I move numbly towards the entrance
The doorknob is lifeless and still in my grasp
It doesn't move or budge
Door is locked
Back away
Have to get in
Calling for me
Waiting for me
Beckoning
Persuading
Wanting me
Needing me
I must
No
I need to get in.

My mind snaps back to reality
There's an open basement window to my left
I climb in without any hesitation
Dark
Dank
Damp
I lean heavily against a firm wall
I cannot see my own hand in front of my face
Eyes don't adjust
Eyes close
Collapse
Asleep
Unconscious

Awake
Time passed
It's daylight
I've lost sense and track of time
I smell like my surroundings
I'm moldy
It's moldy
I'm damp
It's damp
Stand
Fall down
Stand again
Light pours through several basement windows
The room is empty
The light turns grey walls shades of the sun
It's bright
Awake

I begin to wander
I touch my face
Still here
My eye is still cold, but the bleeding has stopped
My eyelid is chunky with dried blood
It still ******* hurts
Scab picker
Pain oozes through my face
A couple flakes of skin float to the ground
Sickening
I can feel the dried blood on my fingers
Chapped
Pick more
Pick more
More pieces of blood-dried skin detach from the remainder of my eyelid and float to the ground
I step on them
Bury them into the dust
My hand is stained red
Blood red
My eye begins bleeding again
I tear a piece of my shirt and press it to my wound
Leave it there
Leave it to soak

I wander in a daze until I find a staircase
Ascend
Many flights of stairs
So it seems
Until I reach the second floor
My legs are weak and numb
Weak and numb
Mouth is dry
Tastes like sand
I move my tongue around and can't feel a thing
Mind is clear
I don't like it much
Search for thoughts
Any thoughts
Nothing comes
Don't think
Press on

What am I searching for
Can't answer
Don't know
Others have answered
I don't change
I'll know when it's found

Awake
I enter into a long hallway
On either side there are empty, window-lit rooms
Rooms that are filled with chairs
Rooms that are filled with desks
Rooms that are filled with papers
Files
Curtains
Shoes
Bed frames
Electric chairs
Operation tables
Iron lungs
Toilets
Sinks
Wheelchairs
Dust
Dust
Dust
Rooms that were once filled with love
Rooms that were once filled with hate
Rooms that were once filled with laughter
Tears
Pain
Prayer
Loss
Hope
Fear
Terror
Longing
Wonder
W­orry

I remember
Each room, a name
Each name, letters
An object of identity
Object of terror
Destruction
Hate

Awake
At the end of the hall, I face a door
An illegible name continues rusting
I don't care
A light is on
It's bright
Blinding
Coming for me
Coming to get me
Wraps itself around me
Can't breathe
Chokes me
Gag
*****
Stomach contents and blood escalate up my throat and onto the cracking tile
It hurts
It ******* hurts
My throat burns acid
Spit
Stays
I cry
It stings
Tears burn my face
My eyes
Sniffle
I wipe my mouth
Taste nothing
Feel nothing

Sick
The light brings me back
I let it
Eyes remain half closed
My sight skips around and lands on a waiting chair in the middle of the room
It looks so inviting
So ******* inviting
I don't trust it
Hates me
Wants me
Wants to feed off of me
Wants to be fulfilled
I don't trust it
My legs and body ache
Wobble

Sit
The room is bright and bare
Bare walls
Bare floors
Bare ceilings
Bare emptiness
This is my room
This is my name
Mine
Sit
Don't think
Don't move
I clutch my hands together
My palms are sweaty
My feet brush the floor
They swing
I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling
Damp
Sick
Don't see
Don't hear
Don't feel
Taste
Smell
I smile
Smile a true, deep, loving smile
A smile that generates warmth
A smile that knows where it belongs
I'm home now
Home
I'm alone
Awake
Alive

I'm alive.

Loving you is a self inflicted wound.
I begin to heal, scab over and itch
but I like the way (loving you) feels,
so I scratch the wound open again.

Loving you is a silent deed
done alone in whispers I dare not speak.
Done in darkness and in guilt.
Never knowing if the simple act of feeling
makes me more human
or less.

Loving you is a deep rooted poison,
an unforgivable sin,
a sickly sweet ichor that has seeped into my bones.
It wakes me in the night while deep in dream
making me live things that never were
and that will never come to be.

Loving you is a forest fire
and all I've made,
all I have,
is resting right next to the blaze.
All I can do is watch
and pray that loving you
won't burn everything else to the ground.

Loving you is full of loathing,
full of shame.
It is done in hidden, dark places of my soul.
I can take you out and play
with the idea you put inside my heart,
secretly.
It's a self inflicted wound, you see.
And when I'm finally healing,
scabbing over my thoughts of you,
thoughts you put there unknowingly,
unwittingly,
accidentally,
I scratch.
because I still like the way (loving you) feels.

I long for a means coalesce like particulates in suspension and not coagulate.
Into a monstrous scab.
I hate to make cheloid tissue of this deadly grouping.
Id **** to be whole by finding a pairing.

The obstruction to human progression,
The roadblock of progress,
We are merely all platelets in this wound.
These free thinkers are the only.
Thing. Holding in all of the blood of the truth in man's march.
The moon was the beginning the end is the sun.
To a fusion of the atom,
And the birth of our flux.
To the birth of our achievement,
When we let loose the wound.
When the inside has healed and we aren’t bandaging the fumes,
Of a gaseous existence to penetrate everyone’s lungs,
With the stillness of thinking and the spirit of calm.

Currently.
We wait in the basement.
Sitting for our,
Plan.
To strike.

We will strike the match that flames the fumes of human resistance and build a castle of knowledge, hope, science, and destroy the sinkholes for progress.
The things that deplete our resources,
And the fire in our eyes will stab into every bastilles walls.
Of evil.

a malt liquor brain bath to deaden the nerves
his entire body is encased in a crusty scab
hard enough that he can’t feel your smile
…much, but then…
he tries, scared eyes breaking contact
his stories are wrapped in laughter bandages
because it’s funny that the nuns
would humiliate him in school
and that his brother killed himself
by jumping off a bridge in St Paul
doesn’t every kid dream of having a bi-polar mother?
that was the brother he could talk to by the way
the other kids, well, just as mean as the nuns
a funny story alright. tragic comedy of
a sensitive soul with a pillow over its face
until it was smothered almost dead
arms flailing in desperation, muffled cries
“there is new skin beneath this scab!”
**** it.
pour some beer on this thing until it drowns