All blood turns black in the end,
you think you’re safe, maybe you can pretend
a little longer, bring the barrier down.
except no, it’s time to go, to theatre
where you’ll be cut from spine to
belly button, A fucking glutton for pain.
Maybe your brain is tearing you apart,
self destruct, so many ways
to bleed that when you feel the way
you always have, what to believe.
Are you stamping out rebellion,
or your very own carefully laid plans,
are you sure, dear one?
And can you really afford not to trust your gut
because this is really the very last leg of the race.
When will you start being good enough,
no longer second place.
Is the enemy curled with love
or is it your very own
sour lemon
face.

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