Love Of A Sociopath

He makes my mouth bitter,
and yet, still,
I consume the words,
though rotten,
where in heaps
they were thrown; the waste
of his heart;
a barren landscape
I once walked
to map
the topography
looking for life,
for something, anything,
to make sense of the dichotomy,
but could never find it;
the reason my mouth
always revolts at the taste,
or the reason why I loathe
what I continue to eat;
consuming like an addict
everything he writes,
of this false, inability to love.

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