Lavínia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 147
I have pores. One, two, four pores. They open and expand. Everything that opens expands, receives and dissolves. My brittle teeth, I don't feel firm in them, maybe I never have.
My belly, in the shower I removed scabs from wounds. After the cuts, scabs form, and when they are very deep they last a long time. I have the feeling that starting over is faster, pull them off, wash the area, and wait for them to grow back. It will heal faster.
I have pores. Five, nine and seven, that resonate. They hear something, and absorb confidences. In sleep they sing laments of longing, the vision of the heart tied in black threads, embracing and killing a demon.
My fingers, on the sides, in hidden corners, there are burns. First white, then red, and then pink. Everything is a mark, an image that rises.
My wrist, marks of matches and cigarettes, lit and burned. Lit and burned. My pores suck in smoke, they bring the smell of burnt flesh.
My shoulders, I can't get vaccinated, my mother insists on it. In addition to embarrassing the doctors, who need to see the deformities, pores kiss cuts, exposing me. I can't wear clothes made of very thin fabric, white. I can't wear clothes that don't cover my shoulders. It bothers me when people touch my shoulders, I have no problem with touch, explaining the strange sensation when touched would be difficult.
My thighs, they itch so much, the skin has become very weak. I created a new one, I killed it. I created a new one, I killed it. Pores breathe, they drown. They breathe, they drown. Fragile skin, lines and designs that constantly itch.
My shoulders itch, my belly itch, my thighs itch. My fingers burn. My teeth are weak, I miss security.
I have pores. Seventeen, twenty and twelve. I have pores. I have pores. I have pores.
My belly, in the shower I removed scabs from wounds. After the cuts, scabs form, and when they are very deep they last a long time. I have the feeling that starting over is faster, pull them off, wash the area, and wait for them to grow back. It will heal faster.
I have pores. Five, nine and seven, that resonate. They hear something, and absorb confidences. In sleep they sing laments of longing, the vision of the heart tied in black threads, embracing and killing a demon.
My fingers, on the sides, in hidden corners, there are burns. First white, then red, and then pink. Everything is a mark, an image that rises.
My wrist, marks of matches and cigarettes, lit and burned. Lit and burned. My pores suck in smoke, they bring the smell of burnt flesh.
My shoulders, I can't get vaccinated, my mother insists on it. In addition to embarrassing the doctors, who need to see the deformities, pores kiss cuts, exposing me. I can't wear clothes made of very thin fabric, white. I can't wear clothes that don't cover my shoulders. It bothers me when people touch my shoulders, I have no problem with touch, explaining the strange sensation when touched would be difficult.
My thighs, they itch so much, the skin has become very weak. I created a new one, I killed it. I created a new one, I killed it. Pores breathe, they drown. They breathe, they drown. Fragile skin, lines and designs that constantly itch.
My shoulders itch, my belly itch, my thighs itch. My fingers burn. My teeth are weak, I miss security.
I have pores. Seventeen, twenty and twelve. I have pores. I have pores. I have pores.
