Long-sleeved summer

12398587_449336365273906_318672717_oI’ve grown rather tired
of gawking uninspired
at the sore, webbed distance
from my index to my thumb.

There is sweat, there is effort
to not soaking my attire,
defending from the covers penetrated
by this heat.

I am silent, I am meek,
I am struggling to keep
my own skin away from
my sin-lens of a leer.

It is hollow, it is dumb,
I have no energy to run.
I’ve no excuse
but the apathy of kin.

These are ravings, this is din,
I’ve no poems left to sing.
Soaked in blood, razor blades
won’t cleanse your skin.

You can’t run, you can’t hide
from my predator of a mind.
Dear gender, why’d you
have to draw a line?

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