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Itch

Despite the fight

of maternal rights

aroused by the

necessity of

a new found

living-


I want to scratch that old Itch.


It still tickles my tits

to seek the 

destruction of

the mirror's

function

with a smile

and an arm

around a naked waist;

waking up

savoring the flavor

of distaste,

then grinding the soul

into a chemical paste-


ignoring

that itch,

spending all my time

wishing a stranger

would dig his dirty

fingernails 

into it.

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