| My bathroom remains the only place I’m ever naked
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| Smashing soap into my hands each morning
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| The shower throat all belching there behind me, bloated with my shedded skin.
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| Good riddance
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| One son restroom away, my blinds clench up on the California sun
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| Setting fire to the dust and possibly day pull on my apartment and I
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| A genuine fear as to where all this sleeping leads has got you thinking thin
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| about what you would and wouldn’t do to survive
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| You would not dig for a fresh wet wishbone in a still kicking chicken chest
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| You would not dissolve small slices of unraveled arm under your tongue
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| You’d maybe kill the power to your hand, but that’s about it
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| Really, you know
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| The razor for your face cannot cut kids from your male animal abdomen
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| You were not born the moment your stomach was finished
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| Your one wing plucked eyes half filled
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| And wild yolk like so sliced into a since
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| So I ask you
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| Have you ever really had a hand fall off?
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| Or found your mailman in your home
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| Eating one of your new poems, holding a knife to your bills
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| Half swallow the scream, you can’t cut
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| And still keep all the juice in that half opened up arm
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| By tightening the ropes of your digital watch
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| You will grow no ghost to leave this angst to
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| And this no ghost will wear no locket for the safe keeping of your fear
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| To dangle like a heart
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| So it may always and forever hear the gulping throats
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| Of all your slopping drops of blood
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| Like this was something beautiful
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| When compared to your red skeleton
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| Like you say
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| You’ve asked nicely for your arm back
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| Except…
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| And everytime the sun leaves you alone on a far curve of the planet
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| You think you can feel the whole slung six pounds of cartoon heart
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| And all its iron tugging drugs towards it |