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Pulling,
Prodding,
Delicate flesh.
My flesh.

This skin you pull at like clay
Molding and bruising.
Ripping at my deepest core
Morals and values shed for your pleasure,

My flesh is nothing but an escape for you.
But, I live in it.
I breathe in my body every day.
Your fingers rip at my skin like pages of a forgotten book

Bleeding the ink of all that was alive within it
I may not bleed, but inside I’m full of empty promises,
That mirror, haunting me with memories of our past.
I have a right to my flesh.

Where you pull, I crumble,
And where you prod, I shatter.
You are not the owner of my flesh,
Therefore, you do not own me.

There is no collar around my neck,
Or leash pulling at my identity.
We were supposed to be working together,
But you continue to rip me apart

Using hands that were meant to hold,
Fingers that were meant to caress.
What flows through my veins is ink, defeat, and rejection,
But don’t for one second

Think I will allow you to break me.
I’ll rebuild,
And I’ll return ink to those empty pages.

Breathing new life between the covers, like skin.
Reborn from the broken bindings
Stitched back together with hopes and dreams.
Weaving pages of my life

With the words not yet spoken
Putting everything back into place.
I became a new edition.
I refuse to get lost on the shelves.

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