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There's a bad bone
at home
in my body.
Mercilessly, it roots.
Hanging on
to skin and flesh.
Daring me...
yank it out.
Taunting me,
pull it up
through the surface.
It seems obvious
it needs to go.
Still, others argue,
It belongs.
It's necessary.
It's not a problem.
I know these words are false.
I am the one
who feels it,
who notices
the impale,
who works
against the rubbing.
It strikes,
slowly...
from the inside.
Weaving, wiggling, wondering...
where
can
it
go
next?
Altered Today: Everything I've been avoiding.
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