Purge.

A peaceful interior –
molded by erosion
and feeling inferior
to one with insides frozen –
resides within her;
She’s fullest when she’s empty.

The graceless girl –
closing all the windows,
frantically seeking your disappointment –
she takes no enjoyment in the pain
but it makes her feel she’s home,
neighboring houses of acceptably sane.

Cracking the door, unhooking the chain
You’re either outside or locked in
to feel her within,
to be forced to drown in her dead skin
that she sheds unapologetically all over your fraudulent willingness to care.
You could at least hold back her hair
and ignore the vomit at your feet.

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