reality slips me a roofie,
takes a razor blade,
and starts, scraping,
with his razor blade, scraping
the skin falling from my face,
when he stops, and says,
son,
breathe,
it ain't that bad,
everybody cries when it rains,
grinning wide, with his parched lips,
bleeding,
crackling,
it ain't that bad.
now hold still.
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