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deepundergroundpoetry.com
Kitchen Fork
I feel sick. Full of sorrow. A fork was all that was needed, all that was used. A kitchen fork. It sliced through the air. And now she’s dead, on the floor. Her heartbeat.
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And she died. They killed her. But it wasn’t me. It was them. The voices in my head. They did it, not me. Not me. I stroke her head, oh how I miss her. I would never do this.
But the fork is in my hand, her heart is beating in my brain. The smell of the blood running through my nose.
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And she died. They killed her. But it wasn’t me. It was them. The voices in my head. They did it, not me. Not me. I stroke her head, oh how I miss her. I would never do this.
But the fork is in my hand, her heart is beating in my brain. The smell of the blood running through my nose.
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