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Angry,
naked,
muscles torn apart;
a stranger lives in my skin,
and, look, how you thrive –
– thrive on my anger,
tippytoeing on my skin;
you’ll be the death of me,
and I know this to be true,
because Death carries no name
but the sweet-scented name of you.

 

A. R. Frederiksen is a recurring guest blogger here at BnV, and her own writing blog can be found here, where she dabbles in flashfiction/poetry and reflects over the, much elusive, ABCs of writing.