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Taskmistress of Petty


I hate you
like the sky that makes you blue on a seemingly cloudless day
I loathe you
like a virgin planning on staying that way but raped before her wedding day
I imagine you dead
strangled
ran over
or delicately torn apart piece by piece by things you never saw coming
Why do I feel THIS way?
Why must you think THAT why?
Call me the taskmistress of petty wistful ideas 
and let me lick the runny bloody tears of your pain forever more you
silly
silly
boy.

J.M.

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