Poem

Our bones feel dirty after talking with them.
As if parasites are their words; each landing
and burying themselves within our skin, burrowing
until finally entering bone. Where they live
the rest of their feeble days knowing we’re unable
to wash the innards of Self. – Each day,
we grow stronger as they grow weaker.
We know this. They know this. Which is why
they struggle desperately to toss their toxins.

-M. Taggart

 

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