Scraps

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
Together,
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.

Smile,
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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