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Cinnamon

I see the cold, chapped pink parts of lips collide,
As they whisper the secrets that used to be mine.
Once a warmth similar to sunshine, he screams,
Stinging my skin with the pain scorpions bring.

Today, in my wake, I am told the brutal "truths".
All seconds stolen from my fingertips,
And every static day of my damaged youth,
Will always remain a lesson better young learned.
Slowly and surely I begged, but still I burned.

Now I picture poison swimming down my childish throat.
Cinnamon vodka and whiskey condemns me to know,
The absence of my innocence,
Like frost biting my fingers in winter's inevitable snow.
I inhale the cold and swallow my hope.



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