to keep me this place
of deep scars and demons.
Marking endless souls
that come through
the gates of shame.
pocked pustule gorged holes—
inflicted by those who paid their dues
to the white robed gods of the mind,
walking pill dispensers, how I love
when you lavish little pink dolls on me.
I utter like a parrot,
so I won’t go to the second floor,
where the monster resides—
sizzling grey matter, burning embers
of those that exist no more.
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