Throwing up until I bled
felt good. (I had to get you
off my chest.)
A cry and a can of Coke
dilutes
the acid
which fastens my throat; scratched
from fingernails
that left behind
fine
red
lines;
soaked by the lemon
you kept in the back of your fridge.
(If lemons don’t go bad, why did it
turn brown?)

I want to know
I want to know
because I’m a bastard now.

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