Hymns for the Bastards: Three.

Nothing Gold Poetry.

I wore sick like a badge of honour

I don’t heal,

I just scab over.

My soul is a mess of congealing blood

Dripping dripping.

I feel you in here like a parasite

And still I feed you.

This is true sickness.

I fear you will burst out of me

Instead of passing with the waste,

Coating everything in sight

With yesterday’s feelings.

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