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Victim
you’re so faithful to that name
something transitory
a stain

it doesn’t alter the light,

bundling up the hate around you
like a tired, still-favored
blanket and hoarding the ashes
of everything you’ve burned:
time, second chances, all the love
you say you do not need
instead of leaving them free

such a small, unworthy thing
to be addicted to,
victimhood
devotion to the future’s amputated limb
while living children starve
and their own bitterness,
too little understood
and never spoken to,
metastasizes into monsters
with the same last name
as your monster

victim
like a second-degree burn
before it turns into a scar
calling home every warmth it touches
an insidious remembering
instead of seeking to heal
.


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Image by photographer Nina Ippolitova

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