withered bits

parts of us
die
when we
suffer abuse
and we often
are forced
to
question
if we
survived
or if we
simply
became
monsters as well

the dead
bits
never truly
go away
but they
linger
reminding us
what was
irrevocably
irreversibly
taken away
and in those
spaces
scars grow
until all
that is left
is a strange
phantom itch
reminding us
what we will
never be

i avoid
my reflection
because all
i see are flaws
but even in
the lowest
of depths
all i see is
beauty in those
around me
which is a
curse as i
refuse to
acknowledge
any but my own
imperfections

i can feel
the tingle from
beneath my
scars tonight
the parts of
me that died
on the vine
as my shadow
stretches across
the wall as i
wonder how
i became a monster
without seeing
the transformation

i survived
but at
what cost

a shattered
pane of stained
glass on a
wet sidewalk
crackling
underfoot
barely noticed
but with an
image that
haunts the quiet
between sighs
a chance glance
never forgotten
in the shallows
of thought

less than human
a dreamsplintered
phantom
hovering silently
in the back
of your mind

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