defective

it’s not strength that keeps me safe –
it’s weakness . . .
it’s not sanity that keeps me moving forward –
it’s fear . . .

rage spreads through my limbs,
a wildfire of words spoken and words kept silent . . .
of loneliness and isolation and irrelevance,
a quelling only accomplished with one vice or another . . .
socially unacceptable actions are the self-medication of choice . . .

when i’m strong enough.

it’s always easier after the first touch . . .
the exhalation purges the disease inside my head . . .
even if only temporarily . . .

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