four pm on a Sunday

April 8, 2012
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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
just maybe
one day I won't need to cry.

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