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  • I have tried so adamantly to carve the words into the wall, sharp enough for you to read and think
    But my fingers recoil, traitorous and foreign at the thought
    Of booze and ash and green swamp smoke and sharp natural tang in the air
    Of books strewn across wet soil, pages torn and scribbled on
    And of you
    Crumpled before me like a broken toy

    I should've kicked your skull in when you asked
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