She sat at the wooden picnic table.
It had been moved into the garage.
Love was so foreign.
She clung to emotions.
Over the other side.
The immature cousin played pool.
He imitated betty boop taking the shot.
Teeth stained as he grinned a grin so wrong.
His self neglect only visible to others.
Inside the body there is no certainty.
The wooden seat feels foreign.
A face was on the portrait.
Struggle creates beauty,
discomfort and shame pollute the aura.
Become evident as you cling to the table.
There is nothing stable.
No real safety.
So when you refuse my embrace.
And hate those that invite it.
You lose out noone else.
There's nothing sinister here.
You look away from me,
insisting on that indoor picnic table.
In that old garage dim and dank.
With that rugged cousin.
He's bordering on gout,
drunk since yesterday.
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