A Broken Poem

Confusion, is not when
I misconstrue your touch.
It is when I shiver away
And die each day
in a corner of my mind.

Pain is not what I felt
As I was torn from the inside.
It is that which soaks
my sheets in sweat at night.

Dreams are not what
I once wanted to be.
They are a ghostly memory
of foul breath and phantom bites,
On my lips and breasts.

When I scream, it is not pretty,
When I cry,
snot and tears and vomit,
I am disgusting.
Do not touch me.
It is nothing like the movies.

When I rage with desire and need,
I never complete; Passion leaves
Frustrated and angry
like a bastard child
conceived in rape and debauchery.

Like a butcher’s knife
cutting through tendons of tough meat,
My pulverized soul longs for respite.
Someone’s meal, someone else’s pride,
This is me, your shadow in the mirror.

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