Poetry Blogs (normalised)

Broken boys,

They wake up.

I like to think that their minds are cracked

But only their skin can.

Train tracks of scabbed blood travel down their back,

Bite marks bubble beneath their bristles of hair,

Bruises burn from my beating fists,

Outlining a dot to dot,

All are clues of miniature protest,

But these they show off,

They rename them.

He says, they say, they sai...

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