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the lice have started surfacing
here—burrowing their way to
freedom through my flesh—
the meat pulling away from the bone
rotted and putrid hangs
one-hooked alone
in the window left to waste
too long in the sun—looking out
toward all the beautiful people
passing by—and they
in true form blue-eyed
blonde supremecy
choose to ignore me
there—flies circling around
chunks fallen into pools of
tears shed from rejection
pain time and again—
not so much as hello
or time of day to pass
the days of solitary
swing though once
a month or so some
tired worn soul will
pause to nibble me
for charity—I am not
proud

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