I’m drunk on feather fullness.
You know the kind,
where lead slinks behind your lids and it ebbs with your strings.
My iron is meek and stretches backward,
pulling my insides inside out.
Where art thou my Jekyll?
Deliver me from my wretched skull.
It’s all I can bare,
reflective stare and shivers hidden beneath sheets.
If only I’d given up.
If only I’d given up so I could revel in the chewing of my gristle,
wrestling with my own common.
Keep me in mind.


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