'Ugly' was scraped thinly across the surface of skin,

Now stinging with addition of stars that bleed and welt,

Distorting into poorly-formed swastikas,

Scabs withering like autumn leaves, new flesh to deface.


Now writing isn't the only misery-ritual taking place in the small hours,

The small hours, so ironic, so freakishly elongated,

Because now everything is a new and potent weapon,

If everbody else inflicts their pain and stupidity upon me,

I might as well join in.


I want you to hurt me, 'cause it's less painful than being ignored,

You draw out the torture, these days and hours,

Leaving me in this hell you built from dead memories,

Burning, cremated, a phoenix with her wings clipped,

Never to rise again.

The End

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