''When love died
The few, spurting drops of his passion
Proved more than enough
To fill to overflowing
The reservoir of her resentment.
A shared moment of joy
Stretched into an infinity of regret.
And so she refashioned
The dart of her love
Honing the blade edges
To paper slicing sharpness.
Secreting far from sight
But always close to hand
The stiletto of her revenge.''
Will I become like this one day?
If ever I become like this
Kill me...
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