This month hasn’t given me anything to linger on,
I thought leaving you would be easier,
Just like walking out of a hall,
But I forgot to shut down the door,
of my bleeding wound which I call,
heart.
Now I simply wish to heal these bruises,
But they still smell of you.
I cherish those wine headaches and lame talks,
And at same moment I cherish I left you,
With my stories and secrets in you,
I’m in war with broken pieces of my heart,
Which still craves your hammer touch,
Darling,
You ain’t my poetry,
You ain’t my love,
I call you curse,
you can call me worse.

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