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40 Lashes

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Mud streaks along my face,
Red cuts on my knees.
Down on the ground
before you I plead.
Countless effort all the things I have tried.
But in the back of your eyes all I see is disgust, as you say:
40 more lashes. Then turn away.
The pricks in my finger, from the needle I used to
sew myself back together.
One look at my work, my hours of toil,
Yours words become scissors; they tear me apart.
Love’s arrow? Yeah right, more like a sword
Cold steel running through my being.
Yet still not a passing thought is given.
40 more lashes. Then turn away.



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