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Like a fluid in palm,
Inexorably, she flows down.
I clench my fist;
That just squeezes her out.

With the littlest of triggers,
She becomes airborne.
I revere the air around me;
I contain her and poison myself.

I taught my eyes to stare;
To watch and learn.
Yet my primal hands want to
Gouge them out instead.

I see things;
Never blink, build tolerance.
The heart is but a muscle,
Mine sinks too often.

Maybe I am the fluid in palm,
Vulnerable to the least of triggers.
With eyes I taught to stare,
I see things that break my heart.

Things she did in my face,
Things life never prepared me for.
Things that make me mistake
The cosmic for thematic.

I have an old suitcase,
This hurt deserves a name.
I should name it and pack it,
Lest it poisons the universe.

For persuading me that
Nothing is better than nothingness,
It is only fair that she
Apologizes to my mother.

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