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You can’t seem to keep it off your tongue,

but you use it like some medicine.

Flesh that’s cut is supposed to heal,

or do you need the pain that you feel?

These aren’t the words that I want to write.

It’s only one round in a bigger fight.

Like all the notes from this guitar,

every kiss leaves a scar.

I could never mark your skin,

or make music on your violin.

Costume changes in the wind

like the promises that you rescind.

Finding words already penned.

Empty rooms and branches bend.

Machines persist all through the night.

A small tattoo is my last rewrite.

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