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Contemplations from when I was 14 and spent most of my time not eating very much so I could get off my face on vodka quicker.

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I’ve got kisses from the matches,
bruising on my lips.
Dear kiss, I miss your warmth.
Heat my soul,
I’ve been so cold, in this fucking house.
You never came here, but everything feels like you.
My hips, finger tips, cluth; break; hold on
to the very foundations of who you are.

I don’t remember,
I was too drunk anyway. I think your eyes were blue.
Mine were, what a pretty brunette.
She’ll get places.
I found your bed, does that count?
It’s not like I didn’t have help.
Thank you sir, want to bend me over further?
I haven’t quite stretched the dignity out from the edges.

Who needs stability when you’re an irrational little girl anyway?


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