I was a stone, hurtling through a shopwindow

I was the motherly impulse in a black widow


darkness whispered in my head, about divine justice

crushing ideas to bits, into dry powdery numbness


I was thorns, around perfumed roses

I was venom, poison in small doses


a wild beast flinching from every touch

hissing and spitting, I lunge if it’s too much


I was silence, when the world exploded

I was secret, behind safe doors closed


day by day feeding on dread and confusion

a light, that blinded me into recurrent delusion


I was reality, without a dream clutched

I was a butterfly’s wing too often touched


at the edge of my world, hoping for a rescue party

in my scarred hide – I’m fed up with being sorry

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