Sore.

Your words were bleach to an open wound of a scar,

A scar gone long without healing by love,

Sore is your heart when you move arm in arm with venom,

I should let you be, I’m burning in that poison,

Soreing, burning, bleaching, screeching,

Pain got a new meaning,

When you were drunkenly leaving,

Come, only when the world ends,

Before that I’ll be losing more,

At the edge of this living, the last of my breathing,

All of mine will be you.

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