OCD, Whoa

Traders trade

in spite,

take what they can—

the love inside

of hands

held together with tape.

 

a grip released to

the wet fabric of the heartfelt,

between ribs—

a muscle’s warmth,

and nothing else.

 

stabbed, I am. by a

girl, lov’d most, by I,

 

once.

 

no limit to the alcohol

I could drink tonight

because of it—

close to hurting myself,

obviously— (cause I have

OCD, whoa, that’s right)

obsessing over old trades

for as long as old tape

holds up to it.

 

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