An odd sort of Poetry · vice and all her ailments

broken faces

I carry all of it with me:

the blood is too thick to bleed out

and the air is too thin to breathe in.

the numbers imbed themselves into my skull

and the cries echo through my mind

always.

the broken faces I knew plastered themselves

onto mine,

so all I am is a collage of horror,

an unreadable book

of a past me

that I can never forget.

god knows I try

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