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Renee Feb 14
Clocks slip through my teeth,
counting hours spent waiting
for you to return.
Renee Feb 12
The house leans inward.
Creaking beams, hollowed-out walls.
It was not built well.
body
Renee Feb 8
The grocery list
was in her shaking hand.
I traced the letters,
but never found her name.
Renee Feb 7
A dead moth, preserved.
Pinned beneath glass forever.
Still, the dust falls off.
Renee Feb 6
Stale air, sinking walls—
mirrors bend but won’t reflect,
not meant to be here.
Skipping class in school bathroom writing stuff on my Phone
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