The low result of my evening in Mid February, which left me waiting for May.

I’ve been panged with something as of late, and it will not stop.

It’s been surfacing in the very gut of me, bobbing and begging for forgiveness in stoups of tap water.

But it festers in the sink, along with the dishes I’ve not found the time to do.

Its panging my insides like surveying sonar, seeking me out.

But in my submarine subversion, I’ve drawn the part of the villain against everything I’ve ever stood for.

I had my trial and tribulation and failed. Prodigal lover- trying to return.

Though never before have I felt more deserving of what I’ve got coming to me.

In the dark of the pit of my kitchen,

next to the small table in my corner on the linoleum,

I’ve learned of the strange halogen-lit nature of Hell.


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