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“My unshaded skin. Snarled and marked of a scoundrel. Scorned and conned. Birds sing in a fair sun, whistles of seas that used to be foreign. My unshaven skin, whispers of owls at night still sing old rivers. Ribs rubbed and punched still sores. Mistakes of songs and words that still linger over me. Marred and murdered death still murmurs.” — Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche
My unshaded skin.
Snarled and marked of a scoundrel.
Scorned and conned.
Birds sing in a fair sun,
whistles of seas that used to be foreign.
My unshaven skin,
whispers of owls at night still sing old rivers.
Ribs rubbed and punched still sores.
Mistakes of songs and words that still linger over me.
Marred and murdered death still murmurs.