don't ask me why the sharpeners go missing | poem

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old habits sit

like a pretty bottle

perched on an

oak table

begging to be

consumed again


they await

like a freshly made bed

with silken sheets

just aching

to be slipped

into


it'd be a lot

easier

if you could just

lose yourself

in

addiction

than just

lose your

mind


-n.c

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