Puppet

I crave,
crave like the depraved craves the immoral,
and like the diseased craves the normal.
why is this so strong?
the need to do something wrong.
I do not understand this desire,
to touch, to kiss, to feel, to admire.
why is it that we always crave the ones we can’t have?
why is it always the one who leads us to our grave?
why do we love them the most?
But maybe,
just maybe,
that is simply how it works,
so they can leave behind a tricky little corpse,
one who is a puppet of all their remorse,
and who they endorse as their irreverent metaphor.

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