The Stranger

Written June 18, 2010

Sometimes I think
I am the stranger.

Don’t accept anything from me.
The disease I have to offer
is dangerous.

I’m a leech.
I’m not a friend.

Not to you.
And often not to me.

I’ve abused everything.

The person who wants it all
for herself is foreign,
but becoming the giver
is yet too far away.

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