I still choose the same wound
empty knives that I can rub up on till I make myself bleed.
i hate that i'm still afraid.
and when I take off my clothes
i'm as silent as the walls.
I hide so heavy from hands
surfacing like a gopher
and risking ravens
looking for a piece
and i hate that
i want to be devoured
and i'm shaking from the need
and for me,
it's always
this way.
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