Saturated in your filthy words , I feel okay, still. It’s not like I’m brand new. Scratch less or stainless from before. I wear it all, it’s scarred deep in me. Each and every blow of his and yours.
You pick one shard of sharp, broken glass and you scratch your intent each time, then you wipe the oozing blood with your palms , pat me on my cheek and smile. You grant yourself a petty excuse and then you try to apologise.
I have no other route to go, sometimes I dwell too much , other times I just let go. But once in a while when I feel okay , these wretched stains and scratches tickle me, I then look down and I recall, each bruise, each shove and every fall. Everything looses its touch, and then they say I complain too much.
Is any thing ever enough…
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