To love me…
I am not the one who’s done, in by a twin, that follows.
Sideline swindles with smiles and spindles twisting typed words, mean, and plucked as personal pokes.
Stokes the fires if miss understanding, landing, in between the wonder and the worry…
Is she blaming me, me, me?
Speak, but speak nimble. A thimble to a prick remains, blood stains.
I have learned to separates the whites from the colors, but the colors still bleed. No matter what laundry detergent I use, no matter how cold, or warm the water…
Leftovers on shirt collars, clean the stains, drains, filled with dirty water.
Am I the one who’s done, in by a twin, that follows?