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yours were the punishing hands and mocking voice

that stole away my thirteen,

wielded the razor to bleed away excess childhood,

sacrificed my Easter Bunny and innocence

in a futile attempt to recover yours,

and supposedly protect me from the world’s big bad wolves.

“Just trying to toughen you up,”

was the chanted excuse, the repeated bullshit incantation,

the shirking of parental duty for freedom and the occasional piece of strange,

the pathetic rutting of a dying organism damaged in its own way,

desperate like all of us for the pale immortality of eggs fertilized with genetic code.

     fuck you

I’m not your legacy

     your dutiful son


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