An ache came on today.
It was strong, and purposeful
It was my fault.
I hunted down your words
For you never gave me any.
I found an old piece of paper,
printed, like gems,
we're my then-seventeen ideals
You spoke of things I was not
and bruises on my knees
but deep down I knew,
they were never about me.
You are stained like an ink well.
I poured it over your head in the night,
when I was shaking alone in my bed
dreaming of your hidden eyes.
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