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AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF
A CLAM
II
In my quiet solitude
I found a hole in my flesh
almost too small to be seen
almost too slight to be found
and I began to eat at it
like a curious dog
digging an open wound in the soft earth
My skin peeled back
like layers of wallpaper and paint
all the years and changes gone by
I took pleasure in its bleeding
as though draining a river
through a blighted land
Day by day
I would burrow deeper
behind the rows of canned laughter
beneath the floorboards of my uncertain youth
leading my way under the angry fence
where I often whip myself
like so many naughty children
I am all of them
I am all of them.
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