The title doesn't really mean anything...
Glen Pudding
You're free to go,
Don't come back, don't come back,
A splinter left on the chopping block
the termites don't care about
threads of your soul tossed into lakes
dragging you down,
down,
fishnet skin, abstract reactions,
a graph with your name on it
kept locked away
never to be seen
maiming your options as you keep a hand
next to a shoulder
just toss it off and save yourself
from being a bin bag.
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