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Sometimes I tilt my head to the side
and cross-eyed, try to imagine your view
through that close woven canvas you wear
as your grey-shadowed sleeve

I can’t find the itch that straddles my back,
though I seek it in your blank stare
and scratch with the barbs that ride
upon your tepid breath

I know the blood has been freed from my skin
by the footprints you leave with my shoes
as you waltz carefree into the cave
to drink from the Lethe once more

I stand before the mirror and you
try to suture my skin to my bloodied clothes, 
not realising that it is not wholeness I desire,
but fragmented honesty

Sometimes I wonder if I’d be happier like this,
with my eyes pleasantly scaled and dark
and no questing blades to score my flesh
with lines not parallel like yours

but I don’t think I can breathe

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