Just a Guess
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You'd have to ask me. Don't you realize
how much I've hidden from you? Don't chastise
a habit you've excelled at, versatile
in form and vague as ever in the style
selected to hide what lives in what dies.
I've been there done that too. I know what flies
get used to clean up after the demise
of hope's abandon, scars we'll not compile.
You have to ask?
We love most whom we tend to ostracize
most readily. You knew that, I surmise,
from what got done to you. (Excuse my bile.
I'm not quite cynical enough, but I'll
be fine.) Solution: that which last replies,
"You'll have to ask."
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2 Responses
Comments are no longer read or moderated through to public display, and all existing comment will eventually be cloaked. I tried. I'm done here.
“So whatever…”
P.S. – Sorry, I keep forgetting, you being free to say it doesn’t mean anyone else can. Quote marks added, so whatever.
P.P.S. – At least you fingered whom I was annoyed at for feeding off my dead skin. But no, I don’t think I can be of any further good to him. So whatever.
This wasn’t meant to hurt or bother you.
Your own beautiful work inspired its dress, true, as your words have always incited my own voice. But it is directed at those who feed off the death, not at the one who is dying.
And although that could easily be turned against those who selfishly revel in the pain you share, I wrote it for one of my own. And you know that would never be you, for you’ve never done or felt anything but the best for me.
As ever, love, M.