“The Pressure on my Skin” – Poem

I compete

Pain to pain, that is the worst form of shame.

Pain to pain, in competition

Creates the division.

Division of flesh, for everyone’s consumption.

How do they want it?

Under-cooked.

They want the blood,

They want the marrow,

They want everything still wet and raw.

Division of flesh,

Division of organs,

Division of heart.

Who had thought to divide?

Who had thought to erase?

Who had thought to see the origin?

The origin

Is pain.

Every drop of blood, is drunken with eagerness,

Hence our living world.

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