Stew

You would let me die.

Without a twitch, without moving an inch.

You’d even push me into the boiling pot, keep me in it, screaming; like a demented stew.

I might not scream. I probably wouldn’t plead to be let go. You’re right.
I’m horrible. I did these things to you. I destroyed and ruined you.

I’ll jump into the pot myself.

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