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Dec 2014
Bonds have been cut from the moon & her light is harsh
I am out here & I am ******
I am the wear your jeans & underwire bra to bed kind of lonely

Confession #1: I drive too fast. Always.
There is a stretch of road that begs to be raced over
Somewhere on my way home from dads to moms
In the super 8 dark over the enhanced chrome road I merge on at 60 over pavement that limits all abilities lower yet moans to be ****** with.

Confession #2: I can't feel anything sometimes.
I reach out, I press down a centimeter more & wait to feel exhilaration
The radio isn't loud enough. I wind the crashes louder until they beat on the glass but my skull still isn't fractured yet.

Confession #3: I never wanted to be the girl who relied on him

But I still want it. I want to stop losing things, & forgetting & retain my ability to focus I want the straight line of your shoulders silhouetted in the snapshot of your late afternoon kitchen. I want my room to stay clean for more than a day. I want my leather skin to stretch over my iron bones & I want to stop disintegrating.

Confession #4: I am lost
Confession #5: I am always too close to the places I don't consider home.
Confession #6: I've ingested more art supplies through the pores in my skin today than food
Confession #7: I admit to being useless, silly & naive
Isabel Szatkowski
Written by
Isabel Szatkowski
   --- and Bluebird
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