Stacey.

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130 words
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I put up
with your senseless antics,
even as they left hand prints
Criss-crossed across my skin,
a stamped graphic infliction giving indication of my submission.
But still I put up.
Or was it, put out?
I pout.
You killed the sprout causing mass death,
Shut off the spout causing mass drought,
Turned from the route causing mass doubt.
But you don’t take notice of the death, drought and doubt.
You leaned back, your stockinged feet up on the couch, drinking your stout, smiling like a Cheshire cat with a canary trapped in its snout.
I guess I was the canary, laying motionless, stationary,
I really should have been more wary of your noxious infection.
In reflection, you were toxic to all my connections
Especially the ones that mattered most.

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