Open the door and shove it inside.
That’s where it should go.
That’s where it will stay.
Remaining in the dark.
It grows.
It contorts.
It survives.
It’s the ugly part I keep.
Buried under my living conditions.
Like a poisonous mushroom.
I want it to be hidden.
No one needs to see it.
The cut.
The rawness.
The scar.
It’s better that way.
It’s not as scary.
It doesn’t belong in the light.
Pisaries Creator 
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