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What do you see?
Are those honeysuckles wrapped
around your body –
or are those bloodstained hands?

What do you see?
Do you see every hair on your body –
or are you tainted, altered
beyond the point of recognition?

Are you afraid?
Afraid of that – yourself?
How sharp your edges have become,
How coldly your eyes stare back,
How your heart fails to recognize you,
How you can’t look at that reflection and say your name.

Today – “It’s me.”




Tomorrow – “Is that me?”




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