You

I hate the little mannerisms
I’ve picked up from you.
I picture your face now
everytime I say “oof”
and I can hear your voice
saying how much you love
that I speak like you.
Every. Single. Time.
It makes me sick.
But I still can’t manage
to hold the words in.
Especially not the ones
that remind me of you.
I’m beginning to think
you tore the zipper from my mouth
the night you pretended
not to know what it means
when a person tells you no.

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