I am
Pockmarked
Like the lunar surface,
Like a rambling, neglected
Dirt road.
Rain still seeps between
The bits of gravel used for fill
Under a woven cover of
Cobwebs.
I breathe, and the evil I do not will
Wriggles from
Weeping-wracked wounds.
I retch wretches,
Clutch clutches,
Breed broods–
Until the gossamer goes,
And I stand instead-
Disrobed.
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