|Nov. 13th, 2004 10:51 am pickled (on me)|
feelings, mine feel as if they were
canned in a sea of vinegar and savory spices
years spent sleeping, dreaming of horrors
in my own personal prison.
clear glass makes you feel as if there is nothing between you and your pickled neighbor,
sister and brother.
when you reach to them, thats the part that burns your nose.
the harsh, fumed-truth. it knocks me out
when my hands hits that glass, see.
this place i lived, inside my skin. for so long
i thought i was free.
i am a pickle, in a sea of vinegar and savory spices
waiting for you to stab me with your pickle fork
and bring me into the bright florescent light
of your kitchen.
and i come to understand
that there is so much
i am scared to be.
this wasn't fate, only circumstance.
i rub your brine off my skin, from my hair
removing every tainted trace of
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