the obstinate stain on the coffee mug

in my throat, there resides a lump,
reminiscent of the taste of self-sabotage.
i cherish it like a solitary island, 
taking care not to succumb to the depths.
indeed, there exists an art to self-destruction, 
and i have become a proficient practitioner of that dark craft.
i am akin to that obstinate stain upon your beloved coffee mug 
and the name you choose to inscribe 
in bold crimson ink.
my spine bears the weight of hollowed bridges, 
their remnants the result of my melancholic conflagrations.
love, it seems, inevitably leads to loss.
i present myself as a liability, 
complete with intricate fine print, 
ever ready to brim your cup until it overflows, 
and then, alas, 
to suffocate amidst the deluge.

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