My Criss-Cross Wrinkles

My fingers are crossed. The skin on my knuckles criss cross, wrinkled from all my working and tilling and watering and weeding. Weeding: I stopped you from rolling papers bursting with psychedelic herbs. I stopped you from destroying your brain, smoking the dried up substance promising to take you through heaven but never telling you the destination; hellish-living. Burning: You were going through hell when I met you. Broke, broken,

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