i am tranquilised and
minimised to a glob of pus
oozing from sores you cannot feel
and, yet, you claim you do.
you massage my scar tissue
just to pierce it again.
sutured suffering:
golden threads in the sunlight,
barbed wire in the dark.
you stitch me to silence me,
sewn up from lip to lip
and, yet, i scream.
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