I can not handle being the perjured and hapless product of a short life defined by reckless love. Without a bandage I receed into my own primal and expensive hallucinations. I am ripped in half by love and truth, a failure to grow as required into a space created with bias, without concern. Creation became my unfolding, undoing, and I fell into a clique of modern recreation, pairs of artistes so perfect that I have to strive for their recognition. Unlike them, my eyes never could hold so little. My track marks, scars, and the sick ruination of my appearance is the only precedent for my future that I find to be art-worthy; a dim, universal symbology that is an expectation I am capable of living. The emptiness that is inherently buried within me has been present through everyday I spend reluctantly existing, never to be embraced by my own hands, or my own heart, both so thoughtlessly young and overworked.


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