I cant reach to make them myself:
constellations on my back;
a repaired conscience under my skull;
knots in my spine;
some repair these things with gold:
others, with knives or tiny mallets
that turn pores into craters
and me? I make them worse
with every twist in the mirror,
every bend to my wrist,
a scrape of a nail means bad things
for the skin but why not? no matter
what I do, it will end the same; with
my conscience as warped as the way
my mind works. the world does not
make heroes from scarred skin
and expelling the dirty things inside me is so
simple
YOU ARE READING
To Be Determined
PoetryBook 4 of seemingly endless poetry (or should I say possibilities?) Some poems are real life, some are not. Think before you assume.
