Note To So Sorry For SelfDora Malech
I hope you like dirt because that’s what you’re getting. Can’t stop held over or ahead, bloodletting go. En route to apeshit, look up the old address, stand on the lawn yelling fill in my blanks. Best left unsaid: oops. Here’s looking. Yup, paper cut to the quick is to say quit moping, my prize pumpkin, my favorite mammal. Whole town’s seen through the dress rehearsal, best and brightest dramaturges parsing the flamingo routine, blistered foot tucking up into darkness. No use crying over erosion— all soil’s slipped soil. Hung over my head on nobody’s shoulders. All skin’s slipped skin, sure collision—insides out and air wants in.
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