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Shaken

You’re standing across the room,
Smoking a cigarette,
Staring at me,
But I’m not the ashes you’re yearning for.
I’m the four-thousand toxins you breathe in,
Destroying you from the inside out,
And the tar that coats your lungs,
Making it harder to breathe.
In your other hand is a Martini,
Stirred,
Instead of shaken,
But I’m not the relaxing feeling you’re buzzing for.
I’m the sclerosis of your liver,
Telling you to stop while you’re ahead,
And the aftertaste of the olive,
Forever ending in bitterness.

I’m standing across the room from you,
Facing the doorframe,
Staring at the floor,
With nothing in my hands.
The only things I had were
Half a mind
From all the toxins,
A pain in my abdomen
From the sclerosis,
And new running shoes
That were about to silently cross back over your “Welcome” mat.




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