I bite, and bite and bite
picking at the skin, given to me at birth,
(or burden?) whatever the belief,
my addictions harness my harmful approach
to the way I deal with things,
the way I dig at things, to find a reason- or
complacency, to relax, a nerve to quiet
the urge of a mouth with no where to go,
in contortion, to my own fingernails at times
I tear and tear as I do with everything:
attack it until its rich enough, for taste
translate it with fatal acids, for smooth deposit
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