Confession: This is What Makes a Witch
I, too, know what it feels like
to be broken down ---
incinerated
voracious
(food cannot quell this hunger)
emotion
has worn down past my bones.
gnawing, crunching, reached its destination
feasting on my marrow
while I sit in a white room filled with
gossip magazines and past lovers,
waiting to be nothing but
used ivories
stiff cracked husks---
broken shells on a beach that
slice open skin drawing
red hysterics (tears)
from the innermost valves of the heart,
caverns where
secret pasts renewing (fears)
lurk, hiding like
undercover agents
plotting to take down
sanity's personification
(It's not that I purposefully destroy,
that I have NO soul,
there's too much of a soul to be contained)
I feel too.
I feel too much, always.
All Ways I feel too much.
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