you may want to know
what holds the moon
in my mouth?
you may want to know
why the sun shines gloomily
on these scars on my face
these scars on my soft skin
are not tattoos
they are unscripted plays
waiting for freedom's day
when they'll be retold
to my children
if I ever become a father
on Sunday the preacher says
"repent or go to hell"
and I'm like:
"which other hell can be hotter
than twenty five ironed stories
like postage stamps on my skin?"
what can be more hot,
bring more hurt,
build more unroofed huts
than this coldness in my heart?
I'm now the face of newspapers
a celebrity by evil chance
held to fame by a father
whose love for morality
means brutality
who will I share these stories with?
I mean the scars like bodyguards
on my body
who cares a sip
of my story?
my wormwood story
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