Stung by Juliette Sebock

My scars start to burn, the tissue
beneath, the purpled piece of skin.

It’s like you’re here again.

I’m supposed to be the scorpion,
perched and ready to sting.

I tend to tuck my tail when you’re around.

Your Cancer brings its own venom,
a long-term wait for fatality.

I guess that’s because you’ll never leave.

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