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Jul 2015
i suppose that i am like a writing desk,
but in the way that i am like the desk
of the ******* the bus
who whispered "schizoid pop"
and "oh wow" into your stubble
after having downed a bottle of ***** and
attempted to consume you up against a fence

i am like the writing desk of a girl who did never
quite commit herself to anything
no subject nor man, only to pretty girls that would never
ever love her back
i am like the writing desk in the way that i am like the
secret garden, in that i have made myself up
inside my head to be the most beautiful thing

i am only to be unlocked with that key
y'know, the one we fought over it's beauty, before
i threw it into a black bag at the meagre age of thirteen
then learning the sentiment of "if i can't have you, no one will"
that key that had a sordid past that my mother was too afraid to
talk about and too choked up to even cry about so
i guess we were really ******

and now i've learnt the sordid past and the stagnant
nature of letters and i am like a writing desk
in the way i know that i do not have an answer
to anything at all, but least of all myself
i am like a writing desk in the way that i am bright as the sun
and in love with life and suddenly,
devastatingly aware that nothing at all
is what i ever thought it could be
i'm drunk and sad and ******* mr. carroll
Cordelia Copson
Written by
Cordelia Copson
   Autumn Shayse and ---
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