after you were bitten by a wolf transformed
into a monster who feeds on other human beings,
each full moon and who, therefor, in disgust
wants to die. you think "the desire to die is not
feeling suicidal. it abjures mere action." you have
wanted to die since the moment you were born
crazy narratives - that lend what is merely
in you- fleeting illusions of logic and cause.
you think "those there, lead their true lives!
they have not as we have been
forced to here, cut off their arms and legs."
there, you danced as well as Fred Astaire,
though there, here, inexplicably you cannot
sewer still just black water
in whose mirror you bent your face,
i can still see you
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