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Turning Point

Your carelessness has a grip around my heart,
its arthritic fingers slowly wearing down the straining muscle.
Each last drop of blood struggles more than the last.

Why do I care.
Why.
Why.

I could easily toss you out and throw that gnarled hand off my soul.
Instead I’m laying awake and burning my
eyes out writing goddamn poems about you.
And you’re just dreaming of the next
time you’ll get me beneath your sheets.

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