I pour the words on the page.
Every word dirty,
every trick played.
Stabbing the lead in the wood
and erasing it all
when it’s not any good.
My wrists are triumphant
with notches. Trophies
of a loosely thread mind,
scarred as if each ship
I have passed in the night
has taken a bite out of me.
The lip of their keels
puckered up, ready to suck
at my blood, thick as oil
and spoiled.
I sit on the surface
never quite fitting in,
but depressing against it
and pushing. I swear
the atoms would split like rats
just to get away from me.

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