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four pm on a Sunday
it's almost nighttime.
I'm cold with wet hair
slightly charred emotions swallowing me whole
on the baby blue carpeting,
we all cry
every drop of saltwater unique
every reason stunningly real.
I tried to say
"life goes on"
but I'm too busy screamsobbing.
there's a tiny chance
I'll spend another year here
stuck in ridiculous rules
unattainable expectations
and an absence of "love".
that word is forbidden, a crime.
we are all treated like ignorant ugly children
we are alone,
surrounded by a swing set,
our feet so close to the sky
if only we could reach a little higher
if only we could smile a little stronger
if only we could dance a little longer
one day
maybe
just maybe
one day I won't need to cry.
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