my thoughts are never soft or even necessary. they spin like wind shaken leaves inside my veins, dripping, smoky soft and irreconcilable. my charisma is bricks. my humor is a punching bag of everyone i want to love but can’t and

my fingers are small with secrets. my heart- candid. striped and tassled with hugs and penance. the opportunities i tune into are tricks. the weather i face is where mild writes in diaries. my body is numb and imperfect, but it is mine, so it is a map of the world. i’ll take it.

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