Poetry
this feels unfinished -
my confession poems
lobotomised
you and i and us -
split
cut
morphed
coined
into formless-forming poetry
one is a raindrop
another creation
on page;
we argued
in your language,
your admirers eyeballing
me
in secret
in copycat sentiments
trying to figure out
'what makes me tick'
what makes you
me
us
formalised
into madness
this is not a game
if it is
we are both losing.
50
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