There is that which underlies the surface
It is constant,
in most ways chronic,
moments of remission but, in the end,
You may see it from time to time.
When crossed, I feel wronged, hurt;
seeking to hurt in kind.
Pray forgive the hurt I deliver;
that I felt you out so well
so as to know what knife would cause the most injury.
Indeed, convict my intuition.
I have come to expect nothing less from others;
when crossed from the proper angle, they fight just as dirty.
But I make it easy.
Desiring lifelong fidelity from strangers
I take to baring my soul.
Gladly giving you a map
on how to murder my will.
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