It is like the biting into the core

of a cold,chilled lemon, the realization

leaving its memory to taste like a deep, salty, sore.

It holds and grabs, a needle piercing deeply against

your skin, my skin

the sweet dark chocolate,

releasing pain that sounds like the shattering

of glass.

It puncures your mind like a bullet does to a can

The view of your image in

 light, like the bitter smoke...leaving a society's pinching hole, a clan

A clique of holes too scary to fill, 'cause to try means to fall

with no one on the other side to even watch you.

Sour it is, linger its job,

It...it  is my sorrow, my image, my mind, the media  and you

huring the soul, my soul.