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bad fruit.


My Dear, 


             Ripened and rotted, you’ve lingered      

                           long enough. 


I struggle now to pluck the stench from the  

                    silk bedding, unwilling to admit


                            that you are just no good. 


It’s strange 

          

               how our lust defines us, 


                        influences the abandonment       

                                      of our preservation. 


                         Like a siren,

                                    peace abandons me


                and I’m left haunted by the 

                        admittance of your idle truth. 


      You are what my mother warned me of.


A devil with his hand stretched out. 


 
 
 

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