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The answer hung in the air
Waiting to be plucked,
Opened, spilled..
It has this presence
An uncomfortable foreboding.
It's like that torn piece of skin
At the edge of your fingernails
It doesn't really harm you
It is not painful
But it's there.
And the fact that it's there
Makes you uncomfortable
You want so much to get rid of it
To relieve you of the rough edge
And smoothen things out
But if you do,
When you do,
It will leave a bloody trail.
The uncomfortable feeling gone
Leaving you with a painful sting
You know it is inevitable
But you do it anyway.
The answer hung in the air
Waiting to be plucked,
Opened, spilled,
And cut everyone's hearts apart..
Or maybe just MY heart.

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