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Thursday, 4 September 2014


dignity implodes
bare humiliation blooms
and then I remember in my daze:
"It's not about you"

forgiveness swoops in
gallantly sweeping horrors aside
leaving only 
the well marked broken eggshells
you carelessly trod on.
those and spilt milk

I still cry over it, though:
the milk.
and then I pick up the eggshells.

I glue them together 
for witches to make boats of
in which they will endeavour 
to sink my ship some other day. 


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