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The foundation the pedestal sat on was rocked that night, and through her fog that fills her brain she's yet to decide if that's good or bad.
It's not that he became someone she didn't know --
more that the expectations were there at all --
but again judgement is reserved.
Her hands held assault delicately --
similar to his --

His words landed with loud thuds as they marked the skin.
Her skin.
His ego.
His soul.
Her soul.
A lawn mower in a garden.
But who's who?
A bomb with the wrong wire cut.
All the work up of emotions to make the blades meet in the middle
just to have it explode anyway --
and it's odd because even if the smoke never clears they'll still stand in their ruins.
One's kerosene, one's gasoline.

"soul spilling"

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