WALKING HOME

An alley of faces,
Hair that I cannot see past,
Hands going pale,
Hips on hips,
Sparks flying as teeth get chipped.
The feeling of bricks breaking nails
Will wriggle inside me until I starve it.
Blood tickles the back of my throat
As I arch my spine and reach out for a friend,
And the scratching on my shoulder
Doesn’t make a mark
As I stare at myself in the shower.

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