if raw
is better,
then
why does it
make me
feel
so sick
within?

i cannot
brush
away the
confusion
perched upon
my shoulder.

it is a
patchwork vulture,
toy gemstones
for eyes and
talons
crafted from
your bones.

here i am,
feeding you
raw words
and childhood
dreams.
i hold your
jaws
clamped shut,
force you
to swallow
this bitter plague.

why aren’t
you dying yet?

… why
am i
still trying
to make
sense
of
this?

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