I hope this is a gentle slaying

so we can read the entrails of this life,

the gore strewn across our history

is a trail for the stalking future to follow,

our hands red from fresh love and mistakes.

Memories hunt us back,

while our newborn potential

is unprotected in the burrow,

and seconds have fangs.

We learn running is survival, but

self-conscious legs tremble and betray,

and regret severs hamstrings.

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