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And she passed me
Like everything else
**** the ones who make me mad
But let them be without it.
American Dreams are made of spit and waking up,
***** men and women and
Pale white
Dull light on the night shift by yourself,
Taking his shift because you don't have a choice
And screaming silent in the bathroom because
There's nothing else.
There's nothing else.
Was
and everything that Was
could no longer Be.
It feels like an anchor is stuck to
my heart
and the chain going down
has only just begun
to rust.
How's a girl supposed to live?
How's a girl supposed to cry
When crying should be kindness and kindness should be strength.
They say **** them with it
But I've only ever killed with fists
And cried with open ones
Against my cheeks to stop the bleeding.
but his lashes were whispers and lips quite a dream.
Inside the left brown eye was a streak of yellow in similar form of a galaxy
in the dark, like a branch reaching far.
And when he blinked, he didn't, really,
for always pacing was his mind and through the eyes, it shown.
The look he gave when staring and still
was that of a dog watching you play the piano, and never flinching
at a wrong note or off-key.
Steady. Serene. Curious and kind.

His legs were long but not too long - just right in comparison to his torso
and he stood strong, not necessarily tall or brutish but calm like a soldier without the doubt of a boy.

When he smiled - oh.
A soft ***** deep behind the strings of your heart, obscured but of a feeling
no one's ever felt except for when he touched your hand.

and when he left you it was dread
dread for the empty space in between
dread for the waiting for the waiting
for the when

And dread for the thought of never coming back,
of never-release from that thing,
not a man.

But at least you got to know.
At least you got to see.
To touch and feel,
to kiss and sleep.
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