We were always
The leftovers…
The scrap. 
The ones you saw
At the end of the day,
When all was done.

Those fortune children,
Who have mommy and daddy
Living a lie…
Under a picture perfect
White fence…
Red door
And everything.

How blissful it is…
Painting a picture
That isn’t…
Pretending all
That it is not…

Such a conflict…
Internal turmoil…
Ready to erupt…
Yet always contained.

It’s your moment.

How lovely it was
To pretend…
When all you really saw
Was the scraps
In a graveyard.

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