The art to forgetfulness.


Your words were a drug.
Something I tried once and didn’t like,
but by the first words, I was hooked.
They ran through my veins like poison- Like a high I couldn’t come down from-
Except, my high was a fatigue I couldn’t sleep off.
Your mouth was genocide.
And my eyes were closed.
Hands up; naked.
Ropes and razor blades became the only weapons I had at my disposal.
Stripped.
My nepenthe became the blood that ran down my arms,
So I could forget you.
I tried so hard to forget you.
But to forget you,
would kill me.

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