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  • I woke up with the words
    Corpuscular, vicarious
    In my head.

    And there I was again
    teetering on a precipice;
    cat walk; artificial reality.

    I had dreamed of
    art school
    a minute globular particle

    a lymph cell in the
    sea of creativity
    swimming with vitality

    I served, instead, for
    my aunt, who wished
    she was me; sixteen.

    Hiding my identity
    as a conduit of art
    now a clothes hangar.

    I walked along the cat walk
    my flesh creeping
    from eyes looking at my body; not my soul

    I was a prize cow
    whose skeleton served
    to show her meat.

    The bidders’ eyes were at
    the level of my feet
    I will do this no more

    I cried in my mind
    walking the walk of
    an automaton outwardly.

    Why am I your
    vicarious thrill?
    Subconcious revelation.
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