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You only turn the radio on and sing when you've been drinking.

By , Broadalbin, NY
You say the stress is killing you…
Is that supposed to mean I’m killing you?
I feel dead sometimes too…
This can’t be healthy.
With every terrible thing you say to me,
Every terrible thing you’ve ever said to me comes flooding back,
Reminding me that this wall has been collecting
Pebbles,
And
Boulders,
And
Jagged stones,
For years now.
Dropped from your tongue,
Hard and cold and
Held together by clotted mud and stagnant air.
I wish they would melt like acid strips,
Melt into Technicolor memories of beautiful things,
From the past, the future…dreams.
And I’m not saying that there are not great times.
But you only turn the radio on and sing when you’ve been drinking and
I have resentment.





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