The Parasitic Idiot And Other Treacherous Tales

She is scratching escape plans into the wall
To show the success she so badly craves.
The square room has become a trap,
Filled with the plastic explosive that her head has become.
She hides her face in her hands
As tears well up and run down her cheeks;
For the past,
For the present,
For what little is left of the future.
Crying is all that’s left to do.
But years of practice
Have left her an expert.
An expert in an artform she despises.
An expert in grief.
Mourning is what her life has become,
When what she really wants
Is to be mourned.

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