The jangle of keys, the caustic scars
She left on my incorporeal body
Were signifiers of limitedness,
Or reminders of sin and prior failure.
I never really did quite understand
The meaning of the meanness or the way
She seemed to gloat at her insensitive
Parade of violence, argument and hate.
Never before! I am the little boy
That sticks his curious nose into the grass
And hums a melody that don't make sense.
O see the fault you have in all of this!
Let's not pretend we both don't hold the guilt
For the inglorious conflict that's transpired.
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