If you were to peel back the layers of who I am,
you would not want to know me.
Flay flesh from muscle,
rend muscle from bone,
tear through the viscera
and what would you find?
Like a dog's stomach on X-ray
a misshapen mass of
errata that should not exist.
Bits of brick and mortar
stone and sand
the crushed shells of those
who tried to get inside.
A writhing, dark mass
of depression that just won't
be calmed by antacids.
A small light spot on the X-ray film,
is it a mistake, a problem with the film?
Or is it hope? Clawing forth from the gaping maw?
Who is to say
That you ever really knew me at all?
There's only one way to find out.
Grab a scalpel and go.
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