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Feb 2015
I don't know what I'm looking for
when I look into your face. Maybe
reassurance
that it's not just a mask.

I don't know what I'm writing for
when I pick up a pen,
except that I want
desperation
to make sense.

I'm beginning to think
I've either forgotten
how to sleep
or how to live.
Ivy Swolf
Written by
Ivy Swolf
171
   atlas
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