Churning, the violent turnaround of my mettle.
Tangled in my insides are the seeds of my concession,
and I know only too well the rot of withdrawal.
With fishing line and nickle, I sow my own fallow harvest.
My flesh shall bear the mark of repeated misgivings,
as I plot out the fresh scars to further make my hand the vandal,
the anarchic tool forged for my own disgrace.
And I continue to wade in viscera,
content to let the cycle continue.
When somebody finally reaches out, whose hand shall they grasp?
Will it be mine?
Or will it be the disfigured palm that I so vehemently force into being?
If only I possessed the patience to find out.
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