I fancy myself,
a skilled juggler,
in spite of,
a few missing fingers,
against the obvious fact,
that this circus act,
totally and completely lacks,
any balanced composure;
I consider myself,
as apparitional,
a limbo’d spirit,
in defiant refusal,
against a calling to home,
I fought the urge to return,
to the warmth of the womb,
like I was exceptional;
I call myself,
an over-seasoned,
when I tell,
of where I’ve been,
dissolved into,
every stitch made,
into this skin.

2 thoughts on “Over-Seasoned.

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