Tuesday, October 21, 2014


Goddess, the wounds of your words haven’t quite healed.
Like a batch of seasoned butchers , they had flayed my days quite skillfully; 
I have come to hate the cuticles that newly sprouted on them
Under your studiedly tender nursing.

I would prefer the seething unskinned day
to this meek new one you’ve graced me with.

In the mopped tidy room, on the table, white papers and an ink-drunk pen;  a scrupled
shelf, a sparse chair and a wooden cot; a memory-snuffed
ashtray; four whitewash-smelling undecorated walls.

Like it was before you.

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