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I scrub my heart until the ink runs like my mascara did last night when you threw the playbill at me and told me that i was the better actress, but you were the better man. I glared at you through the blood in my eyes as you recited your lies to my face. "I want you. I need you." And true to your form, your disdain was there in black and red for all to bleed. But it was far too late (and not a moment too soon) for the play was already cast. I am the damsel in recess who weaves her clothes and her lies on the very same loom. i show no surprise when my sentence swallows my words. I just watch you raise the blade higher and higher over my head. Love is the misogynist who let you feast on my heart as the poet cried herself to sleep and the misers raked in the mire. You plunge your knife into my heart to thunder and lightning disguised as applause. I am still not surprised. |