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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 14, 2016

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Submitted: August 14, 2016



He was that
sort of man.

The sort of man
Mum said
not to mix with.

I mixed
with him.

When I say mixed
I mean had sex
with him
married him
sat with him
talked with him
met his friends.

He liked me
because I was me
and not
anyone else.

But he liked
that skinny bitch
at his office
more than me
because she
was herself
and not me.

I liked it when
he was nice.

He could be nice.

But once he met her
and screwed her
he wasn't so nice.

A friend told me
he was screwing
the bitch at the office
because she worked there
and the bitch
had told her
she was having it away
with him not knowing
he was married
to me but boasting
he was a good lover.

He was that
sort of man.

He was that sort.

He was.

I bottled them both
in our bed.

Wine bottle.

Half full or half empty
depending how
you look at things.

I was that sort
of woman.

I was that sort.

I was.

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