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You’ve stopped talking to me and I don’t know why...
I hate this - this feeling - this anguish, with it’s retinue of mysteries.
Was it something I said? I’m sorry - I curse my rebel lips.
Was it something I didn’t say? I’m sorry - I was the unaware child.
I’m just a girl – not some faultless machine
There needs to be a manual – a manual for... everything - so Id know.
Is there a more contemporary narrative than disappointment at the hands of this Internet plaything - this toy-like trap we hope will inform us and we think we command?
I know questioning destroys some things.. but I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
A poem about the mystery of rejection - it turns out I was overreacting =] Oh, how rare =]
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