Poetic Mental Healing | The Archaeologist’s Memory

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You pretend that you cared about her.

You never got to know her.

And despite her obsession,

She knew in her bones

That parts of her needed to remain locked

Because you hurt, you like the smell of blood,

You like girls on their knees,

You excel when you hear them scream

Their pain out of their hearts

And they sicken and can’t get away from you

And your duplicating gestures

Of attention, of erection, of stupefaction,

You want to possess them, all in fragments,

Buried and dug up, you bathe in their despair,

Your lungs get so full,

The perfume of disaster,

Your lips pressed onto unforgiven flesh,

They do everything wrong,

You make them feel so bad, so exhausted,

So attached to the unwholesomeness that is you,

To their inner lack, the call for help,

And you stuff their mouths, full,

And they overeat, undereat, can’t spit you out,

You weave yourself into the texture of their skin

And intend to stay there forever, blemished,

Stained, bloodred, ghost-white, off the street,

Thornbush, don’t pretend, she knows this story well.

Photo by medium photoclub on Pexels.com

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