I Can't Rhyme

A book of poems that don't rhyme.

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3. Duct Tape

I don't talk.
Duct tape
has a thing
with keeping me
quiet.

I'm still scraping 
your blood
out from under my
fingernails,
not that much 
of the nail is left.
Nervous chewing habit,
my mother tells me they
used to be beautiful. 

People count on me
being sorry,
because they think
my eyes are cute,
innocent,
even though they're
so large, I look
like a crack addict.

Maybe I'm sorry
that you aren't
around anymore
but probably only
for some self-indulging 
possibility.

I still like the look
of your head 
on my wall.

You never could
shut up,
but you always had
plenty of
duct tape
for me...

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