Skipping to the
End
Of this
Hard
Hard
Line
I
Most certainly
And incandescently
Devotedly conclude
That I
Am
Not
An
Adult
But the water looks so still
And cool
Shaved
Dispersed and unsentimental
Like a season in a folk song
Ladder's that way,
Skin and Toast
Oh, fuck you! Fuck you and everything in your pantry, how dare you fray the edges of this list of insecurities I stick onto my fridge with my do's and my maybe' s. I've seen your closet. I know your skeleton. I know what makes you ugly. I tried on your shoes long before your stupid little disease crept it's way onto your bony fingers. How dare you have an opinion about me you childless poet. I'm not afraid of you. You're the problem, you gypsy fucking wino, go home to your pack of wolves and say one for me. Leave a light on. I'm on to you. I will walk right over you next time I see you in the back alley, begging for money, warming yourself over crack pipes and missing manifestos. That's right, I can rage with the big girls. I have girth in my cheeks, and there's no telling when I'll crack.
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