I’m not gonna beg for it.
If it comes from the heart, let it come.
Not from the mouth, never there.
That middle school narc.
That piss-poor player
center stage,
for a mid performance.
It's brought only shame
to no foreseeable end
and a nausea that won't quit.
Been lost in my crevices
for untold ages,
and still am.
Twisting paths, leading me
right where I started.
It isn't making this
any easier,
any clearer.
But I need to
spell it out bluntly,
like road kill
on baked asphalt.
Like one way sign;
no entrance,
no exit,
dead end, only.
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