Brandishing Burrs

Image courtesy of Jeff Adams

You spent your shame on me,

and it stuck

velcro-like in my chest,

a second skin.

So I’m brandishing burrs –

persistent in power,

tenacious in triumph,

they cling contagiously,

consummation of corruption.

Attempt at removal spreads the disease from

one stick-point to the next,

as tentacles grip with tentacle vernacular.

Shame-burrs pin a second skin

like voodoo doll dressmaker’s pins.

They pierce and drip blood

and spatter on sidewalks

and mar  furniture.

Outweighing organs and tissues, they

pull with gravitational ferocity

and I sink

down

down

down

under the mass.

If I shed one in a moment of stability

they call in favours

and reinforcements duplicate

in the ooze.

Do you not feel your burrs?

Do they not stick to you?

I think I’d like to give these back –

I grow weary of their antics.

Illegitimate offspring,

they don’t display my DNA

or collaborate with my dignity.

Is there a manual for burr-removal?

I’m ready to begin…

What are your thoughts?

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