The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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53. Cancer

I know you don’t want to hear about how they set a fire in my bones, burning me from the inside out.

They cut me with their knives and scissors, tearing my skin slowly apart from underneath.

I know, you don’t want to hear it, but they changed me.

I think they broke me, you see?

I used to make you laugh and now all you ever do is cry and scream at me – causing the hornet in my head to sting me a million times.

I know you don’t want to hear about how they ripped me apart, leaving my skin purple and black like lead.

No one wants to fix the upturned furniture.

No one cares enough for the dog that was kicked.

They gnawed me like raw meat.

I know you don’t want to be reminded about the razors under my tongue, and how they cut you.

I’m sorry I cut you – I really am.

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