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November 7, 2016




there is a bruise on me, a large, discoloured weakness

where once I had been strong enough to carry

the weight of what they thought, who around my life

walk and live and laugh and smile; loved and adored

and it frightens me that I hurt so much that every


touches like a blade, sharply thrust into my very heart

callous twisting while all about me smile, unknowing


A poem by Peter Rhebergen

Copyright 2021

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