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Poetry

Maybe we’re just trying too hard.

Maybe it’s just easier to stop.

Maybe it’s just too late to go back.

(I just want to hurt you all the time).

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There are no more strands left to tweeze. The patch underneath the eyebrow is bare. 
There are no more holes left to dig. I’ve uncovered all of its hidden depths.

There are no more tulips or roselings and poppycocks. Or daffodils, peonies, and sunflowers. 

Flowers are not in bloom- not now or any longer.  

It might just be too late.