You single handedly bent back my arm with one finger pointing forward. You pointed in your direction, with your ways and your words.
"Incompetent,"
I am an incompetent imbecile to you.
I embarrass and disappoint you.
But you aren't shamed or apologetic for your wrong doings.
You point in your ways. There are no stop signs. No four ways, just one way. Just your way.
As I try to follow you and balance the scales, I forget that you are leading. Pulling so hard that my shoulder dislocates. Dislocates in its back and broken way. Peeling tendons from tendons and muscles from skin until it's pulled clear off.
Blood cascades the floor. Garnishes my dress like a balsamic dressing. And I remain as stoic as I can be with tears running from corner to chin. You take my arm with you as you continue pointing and trekking through your own misery. Reflecting on past presents.
Because I am not here anymore.
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