Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Elle Attend, Elle Ne Devrait Pas



She is smoke and death 
to packs of cigarettes. 
Folding points end to end, 
the ones I tend to forget; 
I meant to forget. 
But I am not a gift or truth. 
What has she done 
to deserve the worst in me? 
Why would I strive 
to preserve the worst in me 
when all that keeps me narrow 
is the thought 
of the filth 
of another 
hand on her. 

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