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It burns us

I am still holding on to the lumpy ash
of whatever organic rot this has been
a heart perhaps,
or a spleen?
sweet breads?
Soaked in tears.
Necrotic.

I suckle
the soul eating bacteria.

I repeat the steps,
listen to the silence
ask for help
dig in,
hold it tighter.
let it go.
Push it down.
refocus.
regurgitate
yet still
it lurks
a paid actor in a
haunted house.

I am Edvard Munch’s scream.

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