I guess it feels like I’m waging war on the memory of a monster,
on myself, on society;
my throat closes up like a clawed hand is around it.
These words are my knives, this is a battle roar!
But this isn’t a war,
this is me standing outside of an abandoned house,
begging the thing that used to live there to come out and fight me.
(You coward! You fucking coward!)
I must keep doing this, I suppose, until the urge to rip something to pieces subsides.
And my tired footsteps home sounds like victory drums,
and my exhausted wheezing sounds like hymns.



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4 responses to “Attack

  1. crystal

    Wow. Beautiful!

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