I am burdened by the thought of you,

you with your four-letter word,  pinpricks under the skin.

It is calamus and brine. No real  appeal to the endearment

aside from the fact that you rip the soul apart- limb from limb.

You are a fate worse than death. Holding  figures on red threads,

the promise of that sweet amour tinged with iron.

Giving years of your life for a proposition. Insanity, it is.

Leaving nothing to your name except the promise

of being a possession.





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