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Do Me a Favor


I’m sad, but I’m not so sure it’s about you. Not any longer. It was. Depression made roots inside my stomach. The thought of food made me nauseous, like the idea of you—the image of the three of you banned together against wishful innocence.

I’m still angry, but the sad parts are not something you will continue to have domain over. You are not the cause. You don’t deserve the credit.

Do me a favor?

My mouth tastes like metal—it’s bitter. Bury my tongue below your bed and I’ll hope it finds a way into your dreams.

Make sure you keep it.

You keep that, and my eyes that beg for answers.

I need to become comfortable knowing my emotions are now my own doing. You are my past.

That is all.

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