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Mar 2017
it's the smell of the pillow
still warm.
it's the hair collected in the sink.
it's the ***** dishes that
no one ever bothered to clean.
it's the journal entries
of a high-school dropout.
it's the mail piling up
it's the constant reminders of your voicemail
filled to capacity.
it's the cold steel of a knife
pressed to the throat of your reflected image.
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