Empty

His arms were as welcoming
as the outside world to a hermit,
as warm as that winter.
Hiss. Arms were as welcoming
as the inside of my arm when I carved it,
as cold as a fever.
Welcome. To the longest half walk
of half shame,
of half a dick fit,
and the other was lonely as fuck.
My tongue was swirling with the poetry
of a million virgins
taking it up the arse.
My lashes were so clumped together,
my blind side could tell I was crying.
My feet were so bloody
pressing on the pavement,
they looked like a sacrifice to
all of the men who said were Satan.
This is more than half lines full of pretty;
these are half lines full of dried cum,
of unpleasant filling,
of broken skin
in the corner of my lips.
This is more than Whitman with a limp
this is the pain of a twisted ankle
if one had twenty ankles
all twisted at the same time.
His words were as soothing
as iodine on a cut,
as calm as a storm.
Hiss. Words were as soothing
as a tongue on a cut,
as angry as a breeze.
Soothe. The longest night of the year
with the lack of compassion,
the lack of a voice,
the lack of a heart,
and the lack of the pills.

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