Once a beam
with each passing day,
weeks and months,
the seasons and years, all
counted and stacked neatly on my bedside table,
has now become just a thorn, a bloody,
annoying plug
of those you can not
to see but you feel under the skin
.
This is what remains, at times
something that stings and makes me
jump but, for most of the time, I do not remember having
although part of me now.
Bigg
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