Sometimes, I break.

I trip and stumble,

and as it slips,

I fumble my fragility

and my ability

to hold it together.

But it drops and cracks,

impossible to retract

the putrid purge

of the pitiful urge

to erase my existence.

Shamefully, I scramble

to scrape up the shambles

of my broken identity,

exposed in humility,

pathetic vulnerability.

But it oozes and gurgles,

my inner turmoil,

the raw intensity

of what makes me ugly:

the demon inside me.

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