If I could corral my wild mind, I’d lasso
thoughts of revenge that gallop in when
I’m not engaged in reading or writing.
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'Cause I don't need a man to fuck me
When I can make love to myself
Devouring five bottles of malt duck and a bag of lay’s potato chips
with the godfather on a night of pouring rain in late October
Let this halted journey have nothing in common with who you are, who you dare.
It happens, every accident, in slow motion; your past finding a full stop.
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