My pain is my creation
Lurid and sallow
As the white horse flees.
The pistol is cocked in my mouth;
Hidden behind red lips;
Swallowed behind my own hate.
I have skinned my eyes
To see the sun;
Relieved a thousand cold
stabs of the knife.
The doors will not open.
Ask me if I’m happy;
O’I’ll tell you–
I am aware.
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