I'm finding myself afraid of black hooded sweatshirts
I'm finding myself afraid of freckled skin
I'm finding myself afraid of dyed black hair
I'm finding myself afraid of crooked teeth
I'm afraid of the familiar unintelligible moans mumbling something self-deprecating. I'm afraid it's too familiar--the way that her back arches and clutches itself into a ball away from me. Why do my hands feel like claws?
I like to bleed. It's something self-deprecating. But it seems these days I can't locate the source to cauterize the cut.
I gave you know final words. I placed no flowers on your body. You were buried with my last drop of blood, and now I'm left dry.
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