Excuses

You ask me what I think the consummation of
                                            sorrow & regret
will bring.

I think
that in trying to escape we made the mistake
of believing the things we leave behind
will somehow have changed or else dissapeared
completely when we finally
return.

Gentle susurrations of bad-faith hold
to themselves & nothing else; excuses
running so thin,

the hideous birth
of conjoined twins,
who want only to be loved,
& are as beautiful
as they are ugly,

                            just like us.

The Slaves hates the Master &
the Master hates themself:

we have no one to blame but ourselves.

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