always a smear of sticky
across the cheek of my soul
always a bit of blemish
on the skin of my emotion
always a kind of kink
in the hip of my spirit
that leaves me
a little messy,
a little rough,
a little lame,
returning to you
where you lick your thumb
and rub my face clean
where you smooth your salve
over my burning skin
where you give me your arm
on which to lean,
as you walk me through
back to the mess,
and the rough,
and lame,
limping as I go
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