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Nov 2020
I try not to define myself.
Spoken in a way that my story hasn’t already been written.
The hope that my story is not in existence before me.
That there’s still time to catch the beginning between two crisp pages.
Fresh ink that still smears off the edges.
Tearing out the pages until I get it right.
A story re-written so many times I am unsure of how it ends.
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