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Taco Cat

the ache, the shame, the suffering

I wear a mask of puss and blood

that throbs in all the many places
where my skin has turned to pulp
and oozes a viscous fluid 
not unlike machine oil
flecked with blood
that tastes of gunmetal 
and is produced in such profusion 
that at night it stains my pillows and 
when I'm upright follows gravity 
and drips on my shoes. 
I have grown a beard to try to cover 
but it does not
I know because
whenever I am required to be seen
the people are mostly kind 
they try not to stare
but the recoil is reflexive
and I know what pity is
for the acne is merciless
and spreading
and even now
under blackened scabs
and within the tortured hollows
of past eruptions
I can feel the ache of puss 
as it worms and gathers 
into consecrated masses 
that will burst from the grave of my face
and consume me. 
 
 
 

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