Disposed

I always thought I would begin

with your last breath,

never wishing for your death,

I am not so malicious.

The pernicious picture I painted of you,

no doubt, the consequence

of resentment, the detrimental,

experimental thought process

that delivered me to your door,

with black bags full of torn clothes,

disposed, we were there,

first abandoned, then thrown away,

but hey! Here we go again.

And the pain was misunderstood,

We had not been good,

We had not been good.

Today, I begin, not with your last breath,

But with mine, metaphysical, of course.

We lost every battle,

Oh! But we won all the wars!

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