her
with words.
venom strewn ink on the page.
giving her
what for
on a daily basis.
and then i finally stopped.
the dead horse
is dead,
why beat it again and again
in some sort
of sick revenge.
there is no thing as
revenge.
or getting even.
or in keeping score.
once healed
there's no need to write
about the past
anymore.
it was just my turn
and my
way of getting out
of the storm,
of closing
and locking forever
the door.
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