stopped reading
what i wrote.
who could blame her.
the mean words, vindictive
and vengeful
pouring out of me
like blood from a well
cut wound.
exposing her to the world
as to who she really was.
what pleasure was there
for her in reading
what i wrote.
and yet, she kept on.
i could feel her eyes upon
the page, her fingers
on the keyboard,
to the next, to the next.
i think it gave her pleasure
to think that i
had yet to move on.
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