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Sunday Morning

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You touch my hands with
your corpse fingers,
and look at me with dead eyes.
You say you understand what
it’s like to fight to stay alive
but you've given in, my dear.
I keep looking at your face
in old photographs,
watching you die in slow motion.
Did I not love you enough,
when you went insane?
I watched his marks appear
on your skin,
but baby I was afraid to
say something.
You left the water running
Sunday morning,
so the sound would keep me company
when you left,
but I turned it off.
I prefer to be alone.



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