Around 10 more months-

You remind me of wrought iron-

Your taste and your appeal,

scraping me when I try

to smile. You’re tolerable,

though. They scare me.

They tell me you’ll hurt me.

Tomorrow, I would never

feel free- Until then,

you’ll be molding me.

The pain would not scare me-

You’d be perfecting me.

And once you’re gone,

I’ll be better, finer.

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