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bugshello little wormlittle line of blue.i couldn't help but notice youmaking your way through porcelain dirtmuch like the bed we lay in nowdressed in our finest red sunday skirti feel you with just the tips of my fingers-you've come out to playit's warm inside and the water is just rightand this bed is your favorite place to staycold, cool, rough on my necksomehow that's the pain that gets to methat's what bothers me as i watch youhunched over like a small child examining an insect..then i remember- that's trueyou are a little worm inside meyou've burrowed pretty deepbut not deep enough to keep youfrom what i hold dear to meyou feel my fingers as they caress your formthe ridge the line on the soft smooth "dirt"that you've found your home inthat you've made a hole inthat you've brought life to,but haven't made any better.you know this little game we playisn't like the others- you knowthat it's sacrifice for us both.and it hurts us to make itwell, me, not so muc
The InkwellWhat is it?But how could I explain.How does one tell otherswhat it's like to go insane?I sit in my thoughts, and drown in my headthe gray world I dwell says I'm already deadIt starts at your finger,but maybe your tongue.a big black splotch- where had my skin gone?I waved it in front of my father-told him to help me, I said"Won't you get it off, why won't it come offI've washed it and popped pills and done all I canbut this blotch just won't come off."so he took me to the hospital,but not because of the spotshe took me because I'm crazy,because he said"there's nothing there at all."So I look in the mirror and see themcrawling up my skin.I can just feel them in the back of my headtelling me to sin.And they spread so fast and only I seewhat they're doing to me.To everyone else I'm just like themjust a human being.The more I try to get them off the more they just come back.They all weigh a hundred pounds,I can't carry them all around.Heavier and heavier