who i am what
i am often ashamed of my own past
my own origins
the lust that came bursting
outta my father’s dick
into my mother’s womb,
the denial
the guilt
that shame of
not telling
my granma or her brother
of my own existence,
the secrecy of it all.
borne from the depths of desperation
she once said i was lucky that abortion was not at hand
when she was pregnant..
i write to
relieve it
relive it
become
the atom
of my own
being
to split
it
to break
open,
see
where
i was,
who
i am
what
i have
not been
able to see
be or
become..
a stronger
man
from it
by it
because
of
it..
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