the way i feel about your flaking heart is: nothingMature

God, how long it takes me to wash your name from my mouth in the morning
like I’m purging some great contamination, waging war on all the things festering
inside of me that you left behind; God, how long it takes me to scrub my floors
of all your footprints, like I’ve let you track blood all through this house
and only bleach can get the stuff out; God, how long it takes me to mourn this
unholy absence like a cancer, like a rotten thing inside of me that I’ve grown used to,
that I’ve learned the shape of and come to know its moods, like I’ve finally
managed to fit its name inside my mouth only to wake up and have to rinse it out.

The End

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