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My Autobiography. My Body

By Billy | January 2, 2010

It’s tougher, it’s darker, it stands up above.

They’re shamefilled neglections of infinite love.

They itch and they scream and they catch every seam

and they live with me

grow with me

ache with me

long with me

like confused distant memories

of probably-dream.

And I can’t say I’m proud, regretful, or pleased

when I look at the remnants of quilt that I’ve teased.

I just sit, maybe sigh, maybe wish back my life.

Or for glue for the pieces that I made with this knife.

These marks are a part of me.

These marks are apart of me.

They are not mine.

They are a part of the perfect design.

On the other side

of that glass

is a boy

with a mask

and a knife

that he thinks is a toy.

There’s a past and an ache

and some nights spent awake.

And he’s watched you

and loved you

and the choices you make.

In his eyes

you see tired

and frightened

and flame.

In his body

there’s a strength

and an age

and a name.

Topics: poetry | 1 Comment »

One Response to “My Autobiography. My Body”

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