within my arm.
a fruit will spring
a scab to peel. an obsession for such a weak man as I.
the dark blur tempting my action.
the over whelming urge to remove it.
its red. its vines. penetrate forth from my skin. and I bleed.
the first of a few falls out.
a tomato.
the second I try to remove.
I squeeze. it hurts.
its vine. is all I can reach.
I rip and tear. my skin is no more.
my arms are shred
no muscle. just the lumpy remains of my scarlet bones.
I tremble at the sight of my weakness.
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