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May 2020
i am an apple rotting from the core,
my shiny skin disguising my bruised insides.
the branch at the top of my head is being twisted off;
a, b, c, d.
pick a name.
smog thought of death comes to mind.
take a bite of me;
feel my sweet happiness ooze with every clench of the jaw.
but get to the spoiled bit
and toss me away.
leave me to rot and dry.
i'm here for a good time, not a long time.
and i don't deserve the pity and praise for the artistry at 27.
so i shall leave the party at my 28th hour.
Written by
   Bogdan Dragos
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