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M 7d
filled the one where my heart used to be with yellowed love letters, pressed flowers from my favorite books watered with bottled saline tears, suicide notes tucked away in paper boats and kept in nasty notepads, unspoken and alcoholic poems and senescent ones i set on fire to guide some people home, things i haven't written poetry about and things that are never made for my âme perdue and sealed with an overused metaphor.

but darling, what about the one on your shins, on your thighs and those at the ends of your fingertips—darling, what about the other black holes?
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