squeezed by the decision
of a dark red bloodstain
on a faded blue work shirt.
Do your palms ever itch?
There was something I
didn't like about her,
obsessively confused,
the perfect folds of
a dirty fear.
Bang shut the forehead,
a hand benignly cleaning
the moment, used morning.
Come by, sit here;
hear me say
I'm gonna be good.
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