I'd like to meet:
The flowers that grow outside of my window are blooming.
I'm assuming
that you're coming over soon.
It's almost half past four,
and you called here at noon
'cause there's a picture
that you wanna see.
Now I'm not even good at being me
anymore.
She wakes up
to alarm.
Her make-up
is still on,
and she can't remember why she set the damn thing.
Her heart is a machine.
Art is meant to be seen, not felt, not heard.
It's just paint. They're just words,
and fingers are for feeling.
Fists are for beating.
Scabs are for healing,
and blood is for bleeding.
That's just how I used to be,
but I'm not even good at being me
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