East Of The Wall A Functional Tumor
The visage crumbled, but ignore the wreckage. It’s worth
was loaned.
As with mange brought by the flea, as with stares brought
by the gangly, we’re all marked by the path of our
births. As with mange brought by the flea, like the call
of the unclean, we’ve been pulled, and the only direction
is down.
The reek of our kin betrays the stain we’ve hid.
I’m the hold. I’m a mark, a lock. I wouldn’t have lost my
breath for lack of a cause. Good god, I couldn’t break
free in time from the grasps of stragglers. Grounded and
shamed, dragged kicking back through the dirt. We’re all
marked. Always.
