phosphorescent rows
of faces flickering
in and out of my
existence, not in
an instance but
insistently cyclical,
in carousel, within
torture chamber waits
a dozen of your best
selves suited up
for the grand occasion
of your swallowed
pride. inside,
whatever you thought
was yourself proved
only to be a series
of over-corrections,
of broken inflections
and unsalvageable
dispositions.
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