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Apr 2021
Held to such high expectations
The fall alone would render but a stain
I doubt enough bleach exists to remove my offending shadow
You grate along my very bones
Pick them clean
Wanting. Needing. Take without asking.
My will a buffet of constant gorge
Even when I grasp the chance to speak up
Crumbs are left
I feast on silence
Written by
Wanderer  Between Midnight and 3am
(Between Midnight and 3am)   
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