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25 Centripetal and digs its sweet little paws into the shoulder blades you have so beautifully pretentiously rested against the back of your chair like you already know where I’m going with this But you don’t believe me And I’m not so white right now I’m not so pale with the yellow stained eyes and blood soaked teeth but I was once. And I am telling you right now, no lips involved, that I am a sick individual because I have found myself more at home Telling all of you pretty little birds that I am sick than when I look, and I say look with the most metaphorical voice I can muster, Out into the street filled with bleeding hearts and penny songs and condom filled pockets That line the jackets of my family and friends. I feel more at home to tell you all that behind my face And deep behind my ears I hear screaming And I hear crying And I see blood on my bed and on my hands and the shining metal on my fingertips that digs into his back and I love every. single. piece of me that way. You still can’t believe me because it’s just the sane thing to do To think that it would be just too crazy to have another Jeffrey Dahmer standing right in front of you Telling you that he dreams of dying as living and living as temptation but I can tell you right now that in poetry we can believe that anyone will tell us the truth and I say things like this with my pretty prepaid mouth: I am a murderer.

Smith

Centripetal Volume 12 Issue 1  
Centripetal Volume 12 Issue 1  

Volume 12 Issue 1--Fall 2010

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