Howards end.

and heres this.

i keep touching myself,


as if im not real,

that there must not be anything there,

other than the glue and mortar

that holds me together.

and im being looked at

in this way,

that biologically makes a lot of sense;

but to me,

im just pinocchio,

cobbled together

with blood and  damnation,

too skinny to be attractive,

too plain to be anything feminine.

and im supposed to train my brain

and my nerve endings

that this is all just life..

its ok,

its good,

im for sale

and theyre just researching the product.

and if im wise,

ill realize

that all i am

is goods.

to be taken inventory of

and compare

against other

much shinier

better packaged


so ill stay,

and listen to the frightful noises

and answer the invasive questions

and go to sleep each night

wondering which one of the shoppers

gets to take home ,

the less than perfect


and then ill swallow a pill,

and try to forget,

the tiny bit of feeling,

that i thought i knew,

to be truth.

thats all i have,




About lifeofawillow
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