Self-Inflicted

 
 
 
 
My eyes turn from happy promise, puppy play
into this gloom
inside my room.
I lick my weeping wound, obsessively.
Mouth suffers, blisters, each bilious day.
Consuming, my soldier memory.
Rewind stagnant defeat,
rinse and repeat,
to be certain I never succeed
beyond this place of treason.
This wound becomes my reason,
my face.
.
.
.

 

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