I collect all of your words daily,
In a basket, like daisies.
When I go to fill up my vase,
Their acrid smell burns my face.
From a field brimming with colors,
Tickling ankles like lovers,
Your insults do masquerade
As compliments in the shade.
But once I pick them my eye sees
They're crawling with a disease.
So I’ll use them to make a stew,
Which I will then serve to you.
And I will watch as your own seeds
With their poison cause ass-bleeds.
I'll smile quietly to myself,
Bottling your blood on a shelf
To use for the next time I bake
For any man who is fake.

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