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pain like a brand upon the skin burning from within warping the body until it is twisted organs beyond function
i had to crawl upon the steps shackled by misery the vicelike grip of a clenching hand, a molten grip, an aching core i had to crawl in my shame - my disgust - the slick cicada shell casing of my bastardized form --
pain, like a brand upon the skin. i breathe through grinding teeth; hiss in punched-out gasps. the tip of the knife of my utter demise lays in docile serenity at my feet and i am reduced to a prisoner in my flesh-wrought chains as i watch the knife plunge into fury, despair, grief -- for what? -- screams of i never wanted this, no one ever asked, i am afraid of not being okay, this suffering will haunt my trembling form as an echo of what i endure, i am alone, i hate this ailing vessel, the sensation of blooming red spilling from burst veins will drive me to a new breaking point---
i could not walk. i could not stand. i could scarcely let out a whisper, let alone a cry for help - this knife i carry in the womb is my burden to bear and i fear that i may never be free of it.
i grip the handle, fingers numb. the knife plunges again.
Some days I will look into the mirror and see a stranger. Or looking back at me might be someone I've been searching desperately on another day, yet now grieve to see. It is not that I'm a stranger to myself, my soul I know, but these expressions, they don't belong on a face I'd read as mine. This form betrays me. These feet can't carry, and this voice can't say.. it frustrates me. And I search. I run these fingertips across it, sometimes enjoying bits of it, sometimes wondering if there's somehow I might mold it to better fit. But the truth is there's nothing much wrong with the body. I might admire it even, were I not trapped in it. But it doesn't feel like it should belong to me, doesn't feel right on me.