The Good Stuff
You want the blood,
not just the skin—
a poem that bleeds,
raw and open, like a wound
that won't close.
You want the truth,
sharp and unvarnished,
a mirror held up
to your own dark,
secret places.
I then will give you the bruises,
the way pain curves
around the bone.
You want the soft parts
exposed, a body laid bare
for you to feel human again.
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