she sat on the bed
and wrung her hands,
eyes tracing
the little yellow flowers of her skirt.
there was a stain on the hem,
small
but unmistakable 
and she thought it no coincidence
that she would spot the blemish
in what was otherwise perfection.

he knew all the right things to say,
you see;
the problem was that 
she could no longer make herself believe him.

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