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Poetry & Art

That Night

I just burned all the skin of my hand, knuckles upward is fresh raw skin,

like that of a newborn.

I begin to wonder…

if I immerse my whole self in a tub of boiling water,

will it make me new all over?

I need newness;

I have become stale; yet, I have many years left in this tired vessel.

My hand looks pretty though,

soft almost red.

It looks as if it’s never been touched,

I wish I had never been touched.

I wish for innocence and naiveté; it will never come.

I get myself in bad situations but they are entirely my own fault.

 

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by misselsalouise

29 year-old horror movie, experimental literature, and cat obsessed female living in Los Angeles. I have a knack for remembering the smallest things and forgetting the most important pieces. I love writing about books, movies, and feelings. My fashion can best be descried as garden party goth and my personality most closely remembers that of a punk grandma.

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