You Should Have Never Crossed Me by Juleigh Howard Hobson

I wrote your name nine times across a piece
of torn brown paper then I crossed it out
and rolled the paper up. I took lemon
juice and vinegar, half a cup of each,
and mixed them in a blue glass jar, about
a teaspoon of black pepper went next in
with some hair from a hound dog and a white
cat. I shook that bottle hard, then dropped your
rolled up name inside. I capped it, then I
threw it in a rushing stream. Nothing quite
like cold revenge. I want you hounded for
the rest of your days. You’ll never know why
your life’s gone to hell, you’ll know nothing but
loss. Tribulation. Unending bad luck

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