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Pulling the comb
(I have become)
Hair in the wound
(Threaded and through)
I seek to please
And feign fulfillment
Gathered in pain
Maybe folded away
And interlaced
Red ink
Reverse display
And woe is me
Back then
I worshipped shame
And here and now
Not much
Not much has changed
Pulling the comb
(I have become)
Hair in the wound
(Threaded and through)
I seek to please
And feign fulfillment
Leap in with me
Into this angry flood
Punctured in silence
I heard your name today
And what is not fair
I’m falling down again
The normal tokens
The postures we assume
Who is it all for
The sun appears to move
My shuffled segments
My arms adjusting to
A lack of presence
Refusing what we choose
Swift and selective
Just paper ripped away
These shearing forces
Horizon lines dictate
And planes of weakness
Surround laconic days
My obligations
Continue on unchanged
Abandoned panic
Somewhere out of frame
Refined, colliding
Slanted breath sustained
Too many old truths
Renounced appearances
And only two doors
Direction unconvinced
My inner canon
Conflated punishment
With independence
A certain sense of regret
So I keep clapping along
Stiff as the magic fades
It doesn’t matter
Skewed back in self restraint