Stuck within the,
confines of what,
I can and cannot do.
Writhing in the,
ribcage prison,
hidden in,
my sickly skin.
Orange and,
golden tinted,
childhood days are just a fleeting glimpse in the corner of my,
from everything that,
held my pieces together.
Maternal and,
paternal ya,
malfunction. So far from the,
warm watered womb,
that I was helped to push on through.
From where others once stood to greet me,
towards my,
uncomftroubled death,
awkward and all alone.

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