One-armed dummy

Dummy

A rusty taste drowns the back
of my throat.
Like thick layers of mold
it lies and grows.
Soon I will have no space
to breath or swallow
It becomes an irritated itch
but my hands are too big to reach
I search for another breach
such as through the hole in my chest
Though invisible to your eye,
I cannot deny
I act like a real bitch.

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