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Thursday, 10:44 P.M.

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As I now grasp onto
the last fragments I have
of brittle consciousness I’d like to atone for
my adolescent trepidation,
or vitreous forgetfulness,
and maybe even meet your eyeline.
I’m sorry for leaving
stains on your bed sheets
that fit in about as much as I do
and I’m terribly sorry for
letting my words belie my body
because believe me
I’m bitter-blue
and choking out desire
as sure as the outline of your lips.





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