poem: when you analyse what’s left of me / tell the coroner i was as good as i could’ve been

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come, weep,

wail and streak forgiveness across swollen cheeks that will turn to a raised hand – a tongue

that’ll lie for the sake of a distant master and knees that ache from crawling

always, crawling, for hope

is in your gut

around the aching and bloody bruising, blooming –

i promise

(they say

and because they believe it, believe me, you will not breathe the word liar)

 

you don’t have to walk on eggshells around me

i l o v e you (and your duplicity, your dumb and complicit patchwork persona of everybody

that has taught you

to watch what you say, sometimes.)

 

plant your feet on the shattered

glass track i crafted for you

and thank me for the privilege of breaking

mirrors,

so you could live to see seven years of bad luck binding your feet to becoming

every statistic you promised

you would never be.

(i’d show you my bruises / but i have hidden them so well i could not find them if i turned myself inside out.)

– t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

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