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| Poet: antslover |
| Category: Broken Heart |
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On closer inspection,
It has turned septic,
Our love, I mean,
Not that zit on your forehead.
My hand twitches with anticipation.
I want to squeeze it,
Till the pus flows
And it's red-raw,
Messy and painful.
I want to press out the creases
In your furrowed brow,
Conceal the cracks,
Just as we've done.
I want shut your trap,
To stitch up your cake-hole,
So the lies are no more,
A mass of untruths.
I want to slice an onion,
To rub in your eyes,
So they're filled with tears
And sorrow and pain.
I want to pummel your heart,
Till it's bruised and abused,
So it beats no more,
So you know the truth.
Our love, I mean, our 'love'.
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