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Sometimes It Looks like

A Poem

The same words are again repeating as I struggle to hold the glitter inside me. 

I don't want to let them see.

I need to rid myself of the debris and set it free.

Sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

The glitter clogged up my mouth, stinging like ants, working its way into the membrane, traveling via a vein, before reaching up inside my brain.

Sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

I am frantically searching for somewhere private, so I can purge myself of this disquiet. Black painful glitter should never have formed part of my diet.

Because sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

It's in my mouth and I need to get rid of it, I know I can't swallow this abrasive shit. My mouth firmly closed, I look for a sink or a tap, so I can rinse out all this crap, swilling it down the drain, escaping from the growing pain.

Because sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

Every room is full and every sink is taken. My jaw is aching, my mouth stays shut, but inside the glitter starts to cut.

Because sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

I'm really afraid that if I swallow my throat will swell and I will suffocate, glitter will permeate, penetrate and nauseate. 

I will asphyxiate.

Because sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

My mind is frantic, my movements manic, but I can't let these people see my panic.

Because sometimes broken glass looks like glitter.

What if someone questions me and I am forced to speak? The glitter will leak, and all these people will know that I am weak. 

Because sometimes glitter sounds like broken glass.

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