A Sickness.

You were a thing unnatural.

Yet true to form.

Something that clung prematurely.

But that is what’s strange

What doesn’t fit, because you see…

You never belonged there in the first place.

But you filled the same spaces and gaps

That you created. 

Filled them with longing

And pretense

And sabotage.

With a fakeness

A sneaky

With a hiding yet scared.

With a Smeagle

A duality, yes.

With truth, no.

You tried to sap the goodness from me.

And fed off of desire.

But always temporary.

Never satisfied

A taking

No reciprocating.

You wore me out for years

Over a decade, in fact.

Tried to claim my innocence

And make me forget my name.

But then I heard it

The Gentle As a Whisper

And I was nursed back

I, a little lamb.

And I remembered my name.

 

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