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it’s an inevitable kind of hurt;
one you’ve been expecting
for quite some time.
you clench your fists,
until your nails
break the thin skin of your palm.
not three days ago, he had pressed
a kiss into each,
folding your hands closed gently.
as if that could hold his love.
save it for a rainy afternoon,
when all you want to do is die.
it didn’t work.

because he’s suddenly twenty miles
and a world away.
and much as you try,
you can’t find any leftover love,
trapped in your anointed hands ,
to wrap yourself in.
to console yourself with.

it’s like;
you were on a game show.
you answered wrong.
and you chose the wrong door
for a consolation prize.
you picked the door with
nothing behind it.
good to have you on the show.
try again never.

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