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What's wrong?

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You remind me of him.
Frail bones,
to match a milky skin tone.
Hair,
wild as fire,
but curls like the sea.
Rib above
rib above
hill above
rib, below.
A pleasant behavior,
a kind satin hand,
a chosen isolation
and forward mistrust.
Your teeth line up
like pieces of gum,
your faces,
much like elastic.
“Listen to this song,”
you both say.
“Listen to this song.
Tell me if you can
figure out what is wrong
with this world,
with this word,
with this guitar.”
What is wrong;
what is wrong?





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