I feel their absence like the aftermath of rain.
I'm vulnerable. Defanged.
I can't kill. Not easily. I've scraped away the deathbringing; surgically removed my casual violence.
I'm so fucking scared.
But in the lucency of my frailty I weep with euphoria.
I can live. I can live.
What is a writer?
A miserable little pile of words!
Call me MP or Miz
Fiction attempted, with various levels of success.
Yes, I do need help, thank you for noticing.
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