They once were steely blue.
A twisted comfort. Style.
It seemed to me they’d last
if not maybe forever,
then something not far off,
until my lack of wisdom
spoiled our quirky look.
My hurried decorating;
glossy magnolia scars
in faded stonewash denim
a sign of rash impatience
to end the job. Instead
I ended them. Destroying
our cred with careless flicks
of viscous and silken poison.
Mocking me, the bucket
waited, open. Hungry.
I gave. It received with glee
gulping down my favourite jeans.
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