in which my hair grows wild and I write bad poem songs

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my body has buttons like a mormon and they open wherever i choose
I am sick of wearing clothes that smell like loss
and I’m sick of having nothing to lose
I stare at the stack of books I can’t read from across the room in which I watch tv
Wishing I was a different kind of gal
Wishing gal was a different kind of me
when i whisper I taste my breath and I wonder if you taste it too
If the words I say softly land with extra weight
If my choke is something that you chew
My head is heavy with hair and it knots all down my neck and spine
I rip through curls with finger combs
Pulling handfuls from this mess of mine
Pulling handfuls from this mess of mine (patience patience
patience patience
patience patience)
I nod to near-sleep in an empty bed
Then wake when something stirs and wants my ear
It’s a weak whisper from an open wound that says “hurting and i want to heal”
hurting and i want to heal

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