with your face
braced for the worst
you squeeze the wurst
out of me.
You're a witch, julienne,
waltzing away
all my hard-earned
creative juice,
reduced.
You're a snitch, julienne,
slicing the knife
down my finger,
lingering at the taste
of fine blood.
One day I'll pacify you,
make love to
you on the counter.
Right now, all I do
is dice.
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