rotten

the screams haunt me
the nights are bearable
the smell of rain washing the dread
shoveled to the side
wasted and shriveled
no one wants to bite into a bruised fruit
rotting inside
how do i uncover my spoiled self
and wait for the jury to deliberate
you didn’t care
you absorbed it all
the undertaking to weave a happier story

© jacob greb — from lovers’ tiff: a ballad

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