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You are draining the love out of me
with many little tiny pinpricks to the heart.
Perhaps destiny finally realized
how to do it right with me
because I am the type
who would fight it out to her last breath
while bleeding from a stab wound,
a fool.
Love runs in my veins,
to run out of it would be the death of me
I would rather perish in a savage battle
that let go of the hand—

But you are killing me without a fight
brilliant stroke
luck figuring things out
how to take my life source stealthily
like a thief in the night.

My strength is my vulnerability
Love plays me at the game
I claim to know best
I want to be love’s saint
hero of sacrifice
And you would take me
to the limits of heroism,

all the late night waiting
all the morning burdens of
recovering what has been lost
the night before
the tedium of each day
that you take for granted is OK with me
without attempting to make it right

The saint I am
is too proud to hurt
so I put Band Aid on the scratch
and forget about it.
Now I have two million scratches

and almost nothing left.

“August Work” by photographer Sandra Panda W.