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Done.

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I’m already forgetting the taste of you,
the
electric touch of your fingers on my skin,
shocking straight to my heart.
A stranger passes and wears
your
cologne, the scent wafting away as quickly as the memory of you.
I got angry.
I got mad.
I got jealous.
I got feelings.
You had
nothing.
Nothing to say.
No fight for
yourself.
I
felt.
You
didn’t.
Are you always this numb?
Are there things you care about?
You worry me,
you make me worry about
myself.
Do I care too much?
Do you care too little?
I want you to get mad.
I want you to tell me all the annoying
stupid things I do.
So I can spit your flaws back at you.
You have plenty.
It’s not
fair.
It would never work,
not in a million years and we
knew.
Were you just ready to give it up?
I wanted to hold on longer,
because I had nothing else to hold on
to.
We knew.
Done.



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