Feathers

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My head is spinning,
and wow, I can't stop thinking-
about how undeniably, incredibly
stupid I have been. My mind is swimming now-
and I'm so sorry,
sorry to my stomach-
sick to the very bottom-
but at the same time, I'm not.

At the same time, I feel like I deserve you,
lik I should have the right to reserve you,
like you're an animal,
and you just need someone like me to serve you,
smokes and breakfast in bed,
like you just need someone like me to cure this sickness in your head-
maybe its just me who's sick.

Maybe it's just my need to feed somebody,
lead somebody,
understand, analyze, criticize, and read somebody,
hold your wings back so you can't fly-
rub them in between my thumbs and index finger-
polish off all the dusty glitter,
so you get sick like me.
and I can feed you nectar, and keep you alive with a paintbrush
so you need me.





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