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I became addicted to the smell of your neck.
Your tea.
The sliver of truth in the stories you told.
But you have sharp edges, 
And I cut myself.
Over and over,
Trying to handle you differently.

I could not know that you coveted the light in my eyes.
That you stole and hid away.
In one of your many dark boxes.
All is black in your weaponized absence.
Still I wait.
Needlessly,
Counterintuitively,
For us to be how we once were,
Close.