The Hand That Used To Feed by Rialto
When you let them in your home, you were naked and alone. They'd been carving your tombstone since they first met you. It's not the years spent in the wings, but it's the lies that really sting, but now with one brief little fling the party's over.
It's so hard to understand in a field of also-rans to be someone else that they no longer need, to be smothered by the hand that used to feed.
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