My mind was laid open by your lashings.
I try to pick up the pieces from the floor,
but they’re so hard to see.
There’s one there in the corner
I’m afraid to touch it, what image does it contain?
I’d like for several of these to rot in the corners.
Life started with blood and pain,
why should this ever change?
Until the day we die,
we’re infested with them.
I thought I repressed these memories sufficiently
(that’s what the shrink likes to say),
but one sight of that today
and they beat the shit out of me.
But I’m tougher than I appear,
and I can fight like a windstorm.
I’ll be back before you even knew I was gone.
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