tears in eyes, bones protruding
cold and dry veins and blood on his wrists,
chains that bind and imprison the mind in its narrow space
a misleading will
subject to a devious tyrant
crawling under the skin.
Purple Lips and dry skin,
is this perfection?
Fly and look down, I go out of my captivity
and I see from outside my internal destruction.
Lotto
and one day all this will
the scent of a memory.
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